


Absolute Zero

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Alternate Universe - The Good Place (TV) Fusion, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Will and Hannibal Don't Survive the Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 14:39:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18012773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: Will and Hannibal don't survive the fall, and Will wakes up in the Judge's office. Things escalate quickly.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I asked, you answered! Welcome to my Good Place AU prologue!  
> There are MINOR spoilers up to "Pandemonium" in The Good Place, but aside from the Judge and Janet and Janet babies, no characters are involved from that universe. All you really need to know is that they're running an experiment to reassess point assignments to enjoy this story.  
> This story will gain a higher rating since Hannibal is...well, Hannibal. I'll be adding tags as I go but I decided from the nature of the story not to tag it MCD. If y'all think that needs to change I'll be happy to update it.  
> Enjoy!

Will wakes in what looks to be an office. It's plain, grey walls, a door on either side of the room and another set of doors behind him. He turns, frowning as he watches one of them slam shut, and then turns back around with a sigh. In front of him spans a large, dark brown desk. Behind that desk is a woman, wearing a big black gown like a judge, with dark eyes, and brown hair falling to her shoulders. She's staring at Will with folded hands and a look like she expects him to start doing tricks.

"Um," he says.

She grins at him, sitting back. "Hi. Will Graham."

"That's me," he says, blinking upwards, and then around him again. His brow furrows. "Where am I?"

"The afterlife." Will's eyes widen, and he looks back at her. "Well, a part of the afterlife. You picked a very exciting time to die, really!"

Will hums, shifting his weight, spreading his knees and scratching his nails over his cheek. He pauses. He should have -. His shoulders roll, and he frowns at the knot in his right shoulder, for the first time in forever, doesn't twinge when he does it. His fingers flex, and he looks down at them. No broken, off-set knuckles, no cracking wrist. No stab would, although he's wearing the bloodstains like a glassful of wine down his stomach and on his shoulder. Can still taste it in his mouth.

"The cliff," he rasps.

The woman nods, still grinning like Will is a new puppy she's just gotten. "Yep! Over and done-zo." She flattens her hand, mimics Will jumping off the cliff and then slams her hand onto her desk with a loud sound, blowing a raspberry. Her fingers curl and she mimics a five-legged spider in death throes, before straightening again. "Dead on impact."

Will swallows. Almost doesn't dare ask; "Hannibal?"

"Yeah, he died too, pumpkin, sorry," she says, and she does look genuinely sad about that. Will swallows again, rubs a hand over his face, and draws in a slow breath. Looks around the ugly-grey room and sucks in a breath through his teeth.

"I know this is a lot," she says kindly. "But I also am gonna have to have you hurry up."

Will blinks, blinks again, and tilts his head back, staring up at the ceiling. "Alright," he mutters, and blows a breath into his laced fingers, before he straightens, sets his elbows on his knees and fixes her with a look. "Who are you?"

"I'm the Judge," she replies, grinning and holding her hands out like she's sitting on a vast, impressive thrown instead of an old desk chair. "I decide who goes, you know, to the Good Place," her thumb points up, "or the Bad Place." She turns her wrist, flattens her mouth and makes a cartoonish 'womp-womp' sound, jogging it down.

Will blinks at her, and frowns. "Well, I think it's pretty obvious where I should go," he says darkly. "Hannibal, too."

"See, normally, you'd be right," the Judge replies, and slides closer so her stomach presses to the edge of her desk. "But we're kind of going through an overhaul process at the moment and we can't just throw everyone Up or Down."

Will's frown deepens. Is it possible to get a headache after death? Because he feels one coming on.

"Let me break it down," the Judge says, and waves her hand, and between her and Will appears a large, translucent blue screen. He can see the reverse of his face, and his name, as well as a big golden '0' next to it. "Everything everyone does gets points, either positive or negative, depending on how much positive or negative impact that action or decision had. You run over a puppy, you lose points, you save someone from drowning, you get points, you get the idea," she says, and with another wave of her hand, the screen disappears. "Depending on how many points you have when you die, you go Up or Down. But right now, we're reevaluating the points system, which means everyone who dies can't really be sent Up or Down because it wouldn't be fair, you get me?"

Will nods, because that much at least makes sense. "So what happens to everyone who dies?"

"Well…" She pauses, stretching out the 'L' far past the point of necessity, while Will merely stares. "Right now we're running a very controlled experiment, and when that's over we'll be able to reassign everyone's points and make a fair decision. Until then, we've decided to make communities as we have been doing, and place everyone in them, so it'll be…kind of just more of the same, for a while."

Will blinks. That doesn't sound great, in all honesty – more of the same for him had a lot of bloodshed. "Surely there are people who definitely don't deserve reassignment," he says, with no shortage of bitterness. He certainly doesn't want to end up in the same normal neighborhood as the Dragon.

"I agree," the Judge says. "But until the experiment is over, we can't really say for sure one way or the other. Now," she waves her hand again, and another screen pops up. "What we've been doing is creating communities based on the same general value of point totals. Everyone with, say, a million positive, give or take a thousand, gets put in one community, and it goes from there. But…"

She sighs, lips pressed together, and eyes Will for a long time. Then, the screen turns, and Will sees, next to his name, that glaring golden '0' again.

"You don't have any points," she murmurs. "Positive or negative. Absolute zero." Then, gently, "That hasn't happened since humans came out of the goop."

"The goop," Will repeats.

"You know, baby protozoa goop," she says, and waves her hand again, and the screen disappears. Will sits back. "You, Will Graham, have absolutely no equal. No one else is a true zero. That makes you special."

"Great," Will scoffs, and scratches at his cheek again. It feels itchy, like the stab wound is healing, but he can't feel it there anymore. There's no pain – just, really, a whole lot of nothing, like he doesn't even exist in this body.

"That's why you were sent to me," the Judge continues. "Everyone else just wakes up in their community, makes themselves at home, the world spins on, et cetera. But we don't…" She pauses, and sighs. "We don't really know what to do with you."

"So, what, am I staying here forever?" Will asks. "Or until your little experiment ends?"

"Oh, no, of course not," the Judge says, and smiles. "I have a very special task for you in mind."

Will frowns.

"I can't judge everyone," she says. "Well, I could, but my new favorite show is about to release a new season and I'm dying to watch it. Y'all are so creative as a species, really, it's fascinating." Will clenches his jaw, and fights the urge to roll his eyes. One thing is for certain – he shouldn't piss off an all-knowing Judge deity or whatever the Hell she is. "And you were right when you said some people should just…not be reassigned." Her head tilts. "I think the Judge could benefit from a Jury, don't you?"

Will blinks at her, his frown deepening.

"An absolute zero is unheard of, Will. You're not good, you're not bad, you're not anything. But you know human nature. I've read your file, I know everything there is to know about you." Will shifts his weight – that's an uncomfortable thought. He looks down at the chair he's sitting in, blinks, and suddenly it's morphed into one of Hannibal's patient chairs. Much more comfortable. He sighs, lips twitching in a smile, and her mouth turns down, her brow furrowing. "And you…definitely shouldn't be able to do that."

Will spreads his hands out along the wide armrests, settling into the soft give of the cushions. He eyes her, and grins.

"If you need a Judge and Jury, don't you need an Executioner?" he asks. Her head tilts. "I know a guy."

She hums, lifting her chin. "Yes, I'm sure you do," she replies, and looks at Will like the puppy has suddenly grown wings – delighted, intrigued, but confused as well.

Will swallows. "What's going to happen to Hannibal?"

Her brows rise, and she waves her hand. A second screen comes up much like Will's, with Hannibal's face and a long, long list of things in green and red, marked in a strange symbolic language he can't read. Next to his name, though Will can't read the number before the screen disappears, is a long red number.

She sighs. "He's probably not going to make it to the Good Place," she says. "Even after reassessment."

Will swallows. "I can't accept that."

She nods, like she expected as much. "Like I said, people are being grouped together right now based on their points totals. Hannibal will likely end up with…similar people." Will's fingers go still, his chest leaps at the thought of Hannibal being stuck with the likes of Dolarhyde, Gideon, every other monster in the world. "He's a serial killer, Will."

"I've killed people," Will snaps, and gestures to where the screen was. She nods again, and folds her hands, resting them on her desk. "If you can't judge me you shouldn't be allowed to judge him. I want to be where he is."

She shakes her head. "The points -."

"I don't _care_ about the points," Will says, sitting forward again. "Find yourself another zero and throw me in with him."

She shakes her head again, lifting her eyes upwards as if praying for patience. She breathes out heavily, her lips forming an 'O'. "Look, I'll make a deal with you," she says, and meets Will's eyes. "The experiment is thirty days in now, and we are letting it run for an Earth year. At the end of the year, the reassessment will take place." Will blinks, frowning at her. "Be my Jury for that time. If, at the end, you still want to join him in the afterlife, you agree you'll go wherever he goes." Will swallows. "And I won't lie to you, Will, if his points total remains similar, he's going to a _Very Bad Place_. I really can't stress this enough."

Her head bobs, like she's trying to physically drive the point home.

Will stands, and holds his hand out to her to shake. "Deal," he says. She blinks at him, and stands as well, and shakes his hand.

"Oh, I've never shaken hands before! This is exciting!" she chirps, and grins. "Alright, you're on. Let's get this show on the road!"


	2. Chapter 2

When Will next becomes conscious, he and the Judge are standing in the middle of a small park. Will frowns, looking around, taking in the richly-colored green of the trees, just starting to fade into oranges and reds at the bottom, the almost fake color of the grass, perfectly manicured as a rich suburban lawn. The gazebo, sitting next to a long, winding path that disappears into the trees. There is a fountain, water trickling in a happy burble that goes over a small dam, to a wide lake, and a stream beyond it, feeding into high-sloping mountains that Will senses are too distant to actually approach.

She grins at him, and Will turns his head. Behind him, a neighborhood much like a movie set sits, complete with brightly-colored awnings of stores and cafés, outdoor benches and tables covered by garishly blue and yellow umbrellas, a cobblestone walkway stretching up to a single building that sits on a hill. It looks exactly like his house in Wolf Trap, and he looks at her with a raised brow.

"Come, this way," she says, and takes his hand, swinging it between them as they meander up the hill. The pavement is flanked with bushes, flowers, the scent of greenery and life a distant but familiar one as Will breathes in deeply. The sky is cloudless, a bright blue like the height of Virginian summer.

"We'll be starting small," the Judge tells him as they walk. "Like I said, we're grouping people based on their existing points totals into similar communities, but there are some where the borders overlap. Your first job will be to evaluate them, and divide them."

Will huffs, pressing his lips together. "And how, exactly, am I meant to evaluate them?"

They pass by a frozen yoghurt store, a pizzeria right next to it with a brightly-painted slice of pizza on a chalkboard, boasting their specials, though it seems to only have a choice between Hawaiian and anchovy-olive pizza.

"You'll be given a file," the Judge says with another chirp, guiding him onward. "Just like I was given yours. You can read it, assess it, get to know the person, and then decide from there where they should go based on the knowledge of the different communities I'll be giving you."

Will frowns. "There has to be thousands of those," he says.

"Hundreds of thousands," she replies with another grin, winking Will's way.

"And thousands of people die every day. Am I going to be evaluating each one?" Will demands.

"Yep! But don't worry – you'll have plenty of time to do it, and I'll give you a little help in the ol' noggin so you can absorb all the information faster."

Will bristles; the idea of knowing every facet of a single person's life is something he'd tried to avoid desperately while he was alive. Now, he's being forced to interact, forced to know everything there is to know, and not only that, but he will be the single decider of their fate. "Are you sure I'm not just in Hell?" he mutters. "You can tell me."

She laughs at him, her eyes sparkling with mirth. "Nope," she replies with another swing of her hand. They approach the house that looks like Will's, and Will straightens as he hears, from within, the sound of a dog barking.

The door opens, and a dog that looks a lot like Buster barrels out, running straight for him. He grins, kneeling down, and catches the little dog as he flies into Will's arms, yipping and wriggling with joy. "Hey, buddy," he murmurs, petting over his little, soft ears, laughing as his neck is nosed and nipped at. Then, he looks up, to see her watching him with a fond smile. "Is this really him, or a projection or something?"

She sighs, and shakes her head. "No. He died around the same time you did," she says, and Will frowns, looking down at the terrier again. "Got into a fight with a bigger dog. Didn't end well."

Will huffs, cradling Buster's little head as he yips and grins up at Will, stubby tail wagging wildly. "That sounds like him," he says, and stands, letting Buster go. He immediately darts off, nosing curiously at the nearest plant, and lifts his leg.

The Judge nudges him with her elbow, and gestures for him to enter his house. He goes, immediately wrapped in cooler air, and sighs. Everything looks just as he remembers it, before he'd moved in with Molly. The mattress on the floor, pressed to the wall, covered in a set of thin sheets and a single blue blanket. The pile of dog beds, discarded, since they'd all been taken and given away before his trip to Italy. Even the chair in which Hannibal had sat, that night, making sure Will survived the sedative and his wounds, still remains, slightly askew as though waiting for him to sit in it.

He shivers.

"Given the chair in my office, I'm sure you'll be able to change it to whatever you want," the Judge says airily. "But whatever you need help with – Janet!"

Will jumps at the sound of a light, pleasant 'Bing' sound, and a woman appears in front of them, dressed in a purple sleeveless vest, a skirt the same color, a light blouse underneath that sits high-collared and goes to her wrists. Sensible, black shoes, the same color as her gently-falling dark hair. He blinks at her, takes in her big, bright smile, her wide, warm eyes.  

"Hello!" she says happily, holding her hands in a loose clasp in front of her. "I'm Janet."

Will blinks at her.

"Janet is our informational assistant here in the afterlife. She has a complete knowledge of the entire universe, past and present, and can get you anything you need to make yourself at home."

Janet smiles at him.

"Well!" The Judge claps her hands together, rubbing them vigorously. "I'll leave you to it! Your first assignment should arrive tomorrow, so make yourself at home, get the place how you like it. You start first thing!"

She disappears with a wave of her hand, and Will blinks at the space where she once was. Then, at Janet, who is still smiling placidly at him, her expression patient and kind. Will, despite himself, feels at ease around her – he looks at her and feels nothing, no shred of emotion, no secret just waiting to be revealed in her eyes.

He clears his throat, and looks around the house again. It's familiar, but the same way an old uniform might be, the same way Will might feel if he were to don his police blues and try and play at being a cop again. It's familiar, and it fit him, once, but it's not home.

He blinks, and tries to picture a small change. Smiles when the dog beds disappear, and a fire brims up in the fireplace, flickering and warm. His eyes sweep over the floor, darkening the wood, removing the back wall. Paneling, heavy curtains. A large dining room table. Horns on the mantlepiece.

Janet smiles widely, and lets out a pleased hum. "You're good at this!"

Will presses his lips together. "Perks of an active imagination, I guess," he replies. His bed disappears, and the off-angle chair, replaced instead with high-backed furniture, the painting of _Leda and the Swan_ , the soft, low light. He waves his hand experimentally, and the rest of the house disappears except for a single door, that leads to the kitchen.

He doesn't go into it. He can't, yet.

As an afterthought, he conjures a single, little dog bed, and it materializes in his hands. He places it in the corner of the room, tucked away, and adds a dog door to the front door, finds that it is now dark, thick oak instead of the white, cracking screen of his Wolf Trap home.

He turns, finds Janet still standing in the middle of the room, smiling at him.

"The Judge said something about giving me magical download powers?" he asks.

She nods, and steps up to him. "The Good Place and The Bad Place language isn't any more difficult than modern Russian," she supplies, and Will supposes that it's meant to be helpful, but he winces internally. "Of course, learning it will be like learning every language all at the same time, some of which don't exist anymore, and some that have yet to be invented!" Her eyes widen and her lips part in a big smile. "So that's fun."

Will blinks at her, raising an eyebrow, and rubs a hand over his mouth. "Alright, so, what, you just plug a USB in my head or -?"

She shakes her head, and lifts one finger, tapping it against his forehead. Will tenses, clenching his eyes tightly shut, his brain suddenly feeling very, very heavy. A sharp spike of light flashes behind his eyes, rows and rows of symbols and numbers flowing on his closed lids, and he collapses under the weight of it, groaning softly. It doesn't hurt, but it aches and sits heavy on his tongue, pierces him, and he thinks it's no wonder people went mad when they caught glimpses of another world, of monsters and ghosts, if it feels like this.

He opens his eyes, suddenly feeling weightless, and groans as Janet has picked him up like he weighs nothing, and for lack of anywhere else to put him, lays him on the table. A pillow appears beneath his head and she sets him on it with a gentle pat to his hair.

"The feeling will pass in a few hours," she says brightly. Will groans, trembling, and closes his eyes. He can't do anything but lie there and wait, and she stands, and he lets out a pitiful groan.

"Stay," he begs, trying to reach for her, but his fingers merely twitch. "Can you stay?"

"Of course, Will! I'd be happy to," she says, smiling, and though all she does is stand in place and put her gaze blankly on the far wall, Will feels better for her being there.

 

 

Hannibal strolls down the cobblestone path, idly brushing his fingers through the luscious plants that adorn one side of it, eyeing the bright blue and yellow umbrellas, breathing in the scent of warm dough, fresh tomatoes, the sweet waft of sugar and milk as it flows from the open door of the frozen yoghurt shop he passes. There is no one else around except him.

He looks up, blinking in surprise when he sees, at the top of a hill, a building that looks reminiscent of his own home in Baltimore. He strides towards it, passing a flock of buzzing bees, a chitter of birds in a single leaning oak.

A flash of movement catches his eye, and he pauses, looking to see a small brown and white terrier chasing a squirrel around a patch of grass. The squirrel runs up the tree and the dog barks at the base, tail wagging, trying to jump after it. Hannibal's head tilts.

He clicks his tongue, experimentally, and the dog looks at him, little ears cocked forward. It barks in greeting, and runs over to him, and he kneels down. The markings are very similar, Hannibal recognizes this animal.

His breath catches, as he realizes what this might mean. He lifts his eyes to the lookalike of his house, and moves towards it with renewed haste. The door opens at his touch, and he freezes when it opens straight into a likeness of his dining room in Baltimore. It looks the same, down to the last detail aside from a small dog bed in the corner.

That, and the room is occupied.

"Will?" he breathes, and goes to him, cups his pale face. Or tries to – his fingers pass right through him, and he frowns, trying to touch Will again. Will moans, weakly, his eyes roving beneath his lids, and Hannibal looks up to the second occupant in the room.

She is staring blankly, and Hannibal straightens. "What's wrong with him?"

She blinks to life, straightening, and gives him a wide grin. "Hello! I'm Janet."

Hannibal presses his lips together, breathes in deeply, fingers curling. "Hello, Janet," he says with a polite nod, and looks back at Will. "What's happening to him?"

"Will is undergoing a language download that will allow him to read the files of the future occupants of this neighborhood," Janet says brightly. "It's a lot of information and he will be like this for a few hours, but he's not in pain, and isn't suffering."

That's…good. Hannibal exhales, and tries to reach for him again, growling softly when, again, his fingers pass right through. "Why can't I touch him?"

Janet blinks. "You have been stripped of the ability to interact with other residents of the neighborhood," she says. "You cannot be perceived, through any of the five human senses, for the duration of Will's role as Jury."

Hannibal frowns.

"The Judge decided this is the only way for him to remain impartial."

Hannibal blinks at her, staring while she merely smiles back at him. Then, he clears his throat. "I'd like to speak to this judge."

"I'm sorry, I can't help you with that. She exists in a realm that cannot be accessed by mortals unless they were summoned there, and she doesn't take on new cases without Good Place or Bad Place representation."

Hannibal grits his teeth, sighing heavily. "And how do I get this representation?"

Janet smiles at him. "Right now there is an experiment taking place. At the end of it, humans will be reassigned according to their updated point totals and sorted into their correct neighborhoods. During that time you might be able to get it." Hannibal makes to answer, but she continues; "The experiment is one month into its cycle and will run its course for the duration of one Earth year."

A _year_? Hannibal looks back at Will, his fingers curling. To be so close to him, but unable to touch him, to speak to him, to have Will utterly blind to him for that long…. It is the worst kind of torture, and already he aches at the thought of it.

He looks back at Janet, and swallows. "But you can perceive me."

She nods, and leans in with a conspiratorial smile, close-lipped like they're gossiping. "I'm not human," she says. "I'm the informational assistant for this neighborhood. And there are others like me with limited capabilities, working in the restaurants and shops so you can eat, and get anything you need."

Hannibal nods, his fingers curling. He reaches out experimentally, and brushes his knuckles along her shoulder, sighing in relief when he finds he can, in fact, touch her. She doesn't move, but blinks and grins at him, and he lowers his hand.

He looks back to Will, sighs, and runs a hand over his mouth. He'd woken up without the bullet wound, without a single complaint from his body. Even the scars from Matthew Brown have faded as if they were never there, and he hates that he can't push Will's shirt up, can't move his hair away, to see if Will is similarly unclaimed.

"Is there a place for me to stay?" he asks Janet.

She nods. "The Judge has allocated one of the residential properties by the lake for you. It's the very last one, and as I said before, you're the only one who will be able to see it, and use it. No other resident will know of its existence, or yours."

She says it with a chipper voice, but it just makes Hannibal ache. Perhaps this is Hell after all – he'd always pictured it differently, a more specific kind of torture. Starvation, maybe, or the endless babble of the masses that turned into pain. He hadn't given much thought to what happens after death, but thinks that any alternative would be welcome to one where he could be around Will, could see and hear him, but be unable to touch him.

He sighs, and closes his eyes, and there is a small snap at the door. He turns to see Will's little dog trot in – he has managed, apparently, to finally catch the squirrel, and he brings it in and plops it at Hannibal's feet, barking once.

Hannibal's brows lift. "The dog can see me," he says.

Janet nods. "Dogs are not people."

He considers, with a tilted head, the squirrel carcass at his feet. There is a thin bead of blood on its neck, its little black eyes open and staring up at him. "Can people die, in this place?"

"Not in the way you perceive it," Janet replies. "If something happened to one of the residents they would simply regenerate in the same spot. Like a video game!" Hannibal blinks at her, and she gives him two thumbs up.

After a moment, Hannibal smiles.

"And I can interact with those that are like you," he says.

She nods again, her smile widening. "That is correct."

His fingers flex, and he looks down at the squirrel. The dog seems content to ignore him, now, and picks up his haul, carrying it to the dog bed in the corner and curling up with a series of little growls as he starts to eat his hunt.

So, he cannot speak to Will. Cannot touch him, cannot catch his eye. But that's not the only way to get Will's attention.

He smiles. "Thank you, Janet," he murmurs. "I can take it from here."

"Alright!" She disappears with a soft, high 'Bing', and Hannibal casts one last, longing look to Will's pale, shaking body. He moves to him, and though he cannot touch, he tries, and presses his hand to the very edge of Will's hair.

"Don't worry, my dear Will," he whispers. "I shan't be gone long."


	3. Chapter 3

The residence Janet described is, Hannibal discovers, similar in exterior to the office building he had used in Baltimore. Inside, it is only his office, none of the other rooms or the stairs leading to the upper floor present, so he walks immediately into the little antechamber, the secret entrance he kept for his patients. His shoulders loosen, and he smiles, taking in the familiar sight, at ease despite himself to be in a territory he recognizes. He enters the main office room, flicks on the lights, and sees the fireplace lit, the side table stocked with wine, just as he kept it. The chairs, spread apart the way he kept them for Franklyn, the items on his desk in perfect perpendicular order.

All in all, a capable echo of his office, and yet he aches, for Will cannot even see it, and doesn't know it's here.

If that is the case, and Hannibal can only interact with Janet and those like her, it will mean several different things – for one, he's not sure if, in fact, they would be affected like humans would be should he try to touch them, or harm them. And, upon regeneration, he does not know if any evidence he left behind would still be present. This will require experimentation, and time, but apparently he has an excess of that.

He sighs, and goes to his wine, pouring himself a glass. Inanimate objects respond to his touch, and he files away a note to see how much of that works for the rest of this place. Will he be able to pull out a chair, in the middle of the street? Will he be able to close the umbrellas, or do something much more drastic like start a fire?

All things he will need to figure out, before he acts.

"Janet," he calls, and she appears with another 'Bing', smiling at him. "Would it be possible to get some kind of book, or information, about my limitations within this place? And the points system you mentioned. I would like to learn, but find reading to be a much better way to absorb and reflect on information."

"Here you go!" Janet says, and in her hands appears a book with another soft noise. It's large, and appears ancient, and is solid and heavy when Hannibal takes it. "This contains a summary of how points are decided, and I've added a section just for you, to read over."

He smiles at her, and nods his head. "Thank you, Janet. I appreciate it."

"No problem!" she chirps, and disappears with another sound. Hannibal sighs, cradling his wine in one hand, his book in the other, and sets them down on his desk, dragging one of the chairs so it sits in front of the fire. The flames are warm, flickering happily, and he retrieves his wine and book, and settles down to read.

 

 

Will wakes with a jerk so sudden he almost falls off the table, catching himself at the last minute and groaning, blinking rapidly as the numbers and symbols swimming in his vision fade from the backs of his eyelids. His head feels heavy, his neck too weak to hold it, but it doesn't hurt.

He sits up, brushing a hand through his hair, and sighs, stretching his arms out in front of him. A growl catches his attention, and he looks to see Buster gnawing on a half-eviscerated squirrel carcass. He wrinkles his nose, and rolls his eyes, but doesn't scold him – it's not like he can get sick in the afterlife. Probably.

He sighs, and swings his legs over the side of the table, getting to his feet. He's hungry, in an absent kind of way – the kind that's ignorable until it isn't. Though he wants to, he doesn't go to the kitchen, but instead leaves his house and walks towards the pizza place.

The door opens with a little jingle of a bell, and behind the counter is a short Indian woman, who turns and smiles at him. She's wearing a red baseball cap, and a red apron that clashes terribly with her bright yellow shirt. "Hi!" she greets, and waves eagerly. "You must be Will. Welcome to the neighborhood!"

"Thanks…?" He trails off, waiting for her name.

"Haima," the woman replies with a smile. Will nods, and steps forward, shaking her hand. "Nice to meet you."

"You too," Will replies. "You're…like Janet, right?"

"That's correct!" Haima says. "I run the pizzeria, and have limited informational knowledge that's only confined to this neighborhood, so you'll have to save your existential questions for Janet."

Will huffs, and shakes his head. He eyes the tray of pizzas on display in a little rotating tube, and sighs, gesturing vaguely. "A slice of Hawaiian, please," he says, and Haima nods, lifting a plate from behind the counter with a hot slice on it. The plate is warm to the touch and Will blinks, eyeing the thick chunks of pineapple, the slim slices of ham. He smiles at her. "Thanks."

"No problem, Will! Have a good day!"

Will turns, and leaves, the bell jingling again, and he takes his plate to the side of the lake, sitting in the gazebo, and eats it slowly, picking the pineapple off first and eating it, then the ham, so when he eats the slice it's only cheese. It's good, if a little salty, and reminds him of the kind the bowling alley served by his house when he was growing up. He sighs, watching the lake, which is placid, the little waterfall bubbling pleasantly.

It is, all in all, a wonderfully picturesque scene, and yet Will shivers, for the last water he saw was chopped by wind, and sought to crush him against unyielding rock. And it succeeded.

He swallows. "Janet?"

She appears beside him with a 'Bing' and a smile. "Hi!"

"Hi," Will says, and swallows the last bite of crust, before setting his plate to one side. He waves his hand, and it disappears, following his command to return to the pizzeria. "I have some questions, if you don't mind."

"That's what I'm here for."

Will nods, elbows on his knees, petting over his jaw and neck. He looks at her, sees her smiling and attentive, and winces. "Would you mind sitting? Humans are more comfortable when the person they're talking to is sitting when they are."

"Oh. Sure!" Janet says, blinking like she's logging this new information, and sits beside him, back perfectly straight, feet tucked beneath the bench. It's not exactly comfortable, but it's better than having her stand and stare at him.

Will breathes out, his eyes on the lake. "Did I die first, or did Hannibal?"

"You did," Janet replies brightly. "Your skull was crushed against the cliffs, killing you instantly. Hannibal's neck broke, and it didn't kill him, but he drowned soon after."

Will winces. He didn't exactly need to know the details, and his stomach shudders and clenches, imagining how it must have felt in those last moments. He wouldn't have been able to cling to Will as he died, would have had to let him go and sink into the briny deep. He shivers.

"So," he says slowly, "in theory, Hannibal's file should come to me at some point."

"That is correct," Janet says. "Though there were three hundred and seventy-eight deaths that happened at the same time as yours, and eight hundred and forty-one more between your death and his, and seventy-two the moment he died."

That's what Will was afraid of. "Fork," he mutters, and then frowns. "Fork. Why can't I say 'Fork'? _Fork_."

"Swearing is not permitted in The Good Place," Janet tells him with a kind smile.

Will rolls his eyes. Of course not. He thinks, savagely to himself, _Fuck,_ and is glad he can actually do that, at least. He huffs, and wipes his hands over his face again. So, upwards of a thousand people stand between him and Hannibal's file. "For fork's sake."

"Don't worry, Will," Janet says, and at this her movements become a little stiff, as she reaches out and pats, flat-handed, on his shoulder. "With your new abilities you'll be able to read and absorb information in the files almost instantly, and then evaluation should move quickly after that."

Will huffs, and resists the urge to say that he's only getting the cases of the people who cannot be immediately sorted. That's assuming Hannibal is on a blurred border, which he guesses is less likely to be the case than he wants. He eyes the lake, sighing heavily.

"If I needed to speak to the Judge, how would I do that?"

"I'm sorry, but the Judge's chambers can't be accessed by human souls without Good Place or Bad Place representation," Janet replies, folding her hands in her lap. "And right now, with the experiment going on, she has ordered a radio silence on all communication between architects and their communities, especially yours." She smiles. "She wants you to remain impartial."

 _Impartial_. Will wants to spit the word, but swallows it back, because it's not Janet's fault this is happening. Besides, satisfying though it might be, he's not sure how much there is to gain by yelling at what is essentially God's Alexa.

He sighs, heavily, and closes his eyes. "I just want…" He trails off, and shakes his head. He just wants to be left _alone_ – alone, except for the one man he cannot be alone without. Hannibal's consciousness, his essence, his soul, whatever you want to call it, is so deeply enmeshed in Will, being without him feels like he's lost motor control of his hands. They're still there, but they don't feel like his own anymore.

"Is there any way I can see him?" he asks, and looks at her. "Just, just to see him. Please, there has to be a way."

Janet hums, and smiles, and with another bright 'Bing', a small notebook appears in her hands. She offers it to him, and he takes it with a frown, opening it to reveal that, inside, it is not paper, but what looks like a movie screen. As he flattens the book to his thighs, it turns on, and he gasps as he sees Hannibal as though he's standing right in front of him. Hannibal is reading, lit by firelight, nursing a glass of wine, in a chair that Will recognizes intimately.

His fingers shake, as he touches the edge of the book. "He can't hear me, can he?"

Janet hums pleasantly, and shakes her head. "It's like a movie," she tells him. "No two-way interaction."

Will nods, swallowing, and he watches for a while longer, as Hannibal turns the page. His legs are crossed, ankle to opposite knee, and he looks relaxed. Not happy, exactly, but not getting tortured, which is better than what Will feared would be happening.

He closes the book, and sighs, shoulders sagging with relief. "Thank you, Janet."

"No problem, Will!"

"I was wondering…since I can't talk to the Judge, would you be able to get a message to her for me? Just that I want to speak to her."

Janet shakes her head. "I'm sorry, Will, but I'm tied to this neighborhood and, like you, I can't go anywhere without an architect's approval and help." She brightens, and pats his shoulder again. "We're like two peas in the pod of eternal pleasantness!"

"Great," Will mutters, and sighs again. He opens the book, unable to help himself, touching his fingers lightly to the image of Hannibal's face – if he had known this was how he would spend his afterlife, so much would have been different. His chest aches, his head feels warm.

Janet straightens, abruptly. "The first file has arrived from the Judge," she tells him, and Will nods, closing the book again. He waves his hand, and summons at his side the same messenger bag he used as a professor, and tucks the notebook away, slinging the strap over his head. He'll never be without it.

He stands, running a hand through his hair, and gives the lake one last tired look. "Alright," he mutters, as Janet stands with him. "Let's get this show on the road, I guess."


	4. Chapter 4

The first file is of a man named Tucker Gibson. He died at age sixty-seven of a heart attack in his sleep. Worked as a Patent Examiner for the Government until he turned sixty-five, retired to a farm in Wyoming with his wife, who is still alive as far as Will can tell. Happy marriage, three kids, all of whom went to college, one of them is married now. Tucker danced with his daughter at her wedding and splurged for her husband's favorite band when their booking fee was too high for the budget. His wife bred horses, and he didn't help out with it all that much. Raised Christian, became lax when he moved from home, had a phase in the flower child era where he experimented with LSD and weed – took up eating edible brownies with his wife once he retired. His favorite color is green, he has a favorite shirt, red and black plaid, which he died in, and likes puns.

He's bald, head shaved, a goatee and mustache combination dark black on his round face. During his last physical he was warned for high cholesterol and started taking medication for it. He owns no less than seven hunting rifles, always wanted a dog but never decided on the breed he wanted.

Will sighs, absorbing this and everything else about the man – far more than he cares about, definitely more than he ever wanted to know, and finally gets to his points total – a positive four hundred and eighty-six.

That seems like a good enough number. But Will knows, now – knows that the highest points number ever achieved is in the upper thirty million. Knows that the lowest ones go as far as negative five million. Keeps catching flashes of the communities as they're being built, some ramshackle and decrepit, 'more of the same', some lovely, some obscenely luxurious. During the trip back to his house with Janet, he had caught glimpses of these places, the communities the Judge mentioned that Will is going to have to sort people into, depending on their points totals.

He doesn't _care_. He doesn't fucking care. He sits at the right-hand side of the head of the table – it seems wrong to sit in Hannibal's seat – and closes Tucker's folder with a sigh, rubbing his hands over his face.

"Janet," he calls, and she appears with another pleasant 'Bing'. "What happens if I decide to just…not evaluate someone?"

"They will remain here," Janet replies. "I should warn you, Will, each community is meant to house three hundred and twenty-two people." Will frowns, wondering at the significance of such a number, but finds, again, that he doesn't really care. "If you don't evaluate people quickly enough, they will pile up and we won't have enough room for them."

"Can't you make room?" he demands.

She hums, and shakes her head. "Any significant changes to a community such as extra buildings can't be done without an architect's design and approval. And as I mentioned before, we have radio silence on all communications between architects."

"Well, what about me?" Will asks, glaring at her. "I'm the Jury, right? I have magical cosmic powers. What if _I_ wanted to add a building or make any changes?"

Her head tilts, and her eyes darken like she's shutting down, trying to analyze that question and return with information. She straightens, and gives him a bright smile. "I don't have any information regarding that, I'm sorry. Communities, however, are very precisely-designed things. Too much drastic change could cause them to collapse in on themselves, throwing all of us into an interdimensional void. We might all die!"

He stares at her, and she gives him two thumbs up.

"Alright, I get it, no drastically altering the afterlife," he mutters, and rubs his hands over his hair. " _Fork_." He huffs again. "You know, this whole 'no swearing' thing is total bullshirt."

"It's policy," Janet says with a smile.

Will sighs. "Where's Tucker now?"

"He's at the pizzeria, talking to Haima and Stephanie. She runs the yoghurt shop," Janet adds, when Will blinks, because he hasn't met Stephanie yet. "Would you like to meet him?"

"…No," Will says. "Not yet." Janet nods, shifting into that unresponsive state she goes to when Will isn't directly talking to her. After another moment idle, she disappears with another 'Bing', and Will sighs, pulling out the notebook she gave him, and opening it.

He sees Hannibal, in his office again, still sitting and drinking wine. But he's not alone. Will frowns, catching a mop of unruly ginger hair that makes him think of Freddie Lounds, and his upper lip twitches back, as he touches the screen until it bubbles and the picture becomes distorted around his finger.

"Who the _fork_ are you talking to?" he mutters, but he can't make the picture move, can't make it turn so he can see the other person. Hannibal's expression is lax, one of those familiar curious things he used so often on Will, before Will found out the truth about him. Distant, detached – good. Will's jealousy is a volatile thing, and as new as the day it reared its head, and he doesn't know what he might do, if he saw Hannibal showing interest in someone else.

 

 

Lucas is the gardener, apparently – another person like Janet. He is a lanky fellow, very young and fresh-faced like a teenaged boy just hitting another growth spurt. He is also quite jittery, in a way that reminds Hannibal of Will when they first met.

He smiles at the boy, sitting back in his chair as Lucas fidgets quietly with his offered wine glass. "Do I make you nervous, Lucas?" he asks softly.

Lucas looks at him, eyes wide and bright green in the soft firelight. "I don't know if I'm supposed to be talking to you," he says quietly. "I should be outside. Gardening. That's my job."

Hannibal nods, and smiles. "A small break, I'm sure, is long overdue," he says. "How long have you been there?"

"The community was made two days ago," Lucas replies. "At the moment of your death."

Hannibal's head tilts. "My death, specifically?" he asks.

Lucas nods again, drumming his toes on the floor in a manner quite irritating. Hannibal wonders, idly, if sedatives would work on something like Janet and Lucas. "Communities are made for specific groups of people, where people are sorted by points." Hannibal nods; he'd gleaned as much from the book Janet gave him.

"I wonder, then, what the logic was behind creating a community for me where I wasn't able to interact with any other residents."

Lucas blinks, brow furrowing, and then he shrugs. "I don't know," he murmurs, and drinks his wine. Hannibal believes him; he read in the briefing of the Good Janets and their counterparts that they are incapable of deception.

"Could you tell me, Lucas," he says kindly, sitting forward as the youth's eyes snap to him, "what were to happen if, for instance, one of you were to die? Who would garden in your stead?"

"Oh, I can't die," Lucas says brightly with a wave of his hand. "We can only be rebooted from a switch on the outside of the community, and only architects can go there. A reboot causes the entire place to be reset, meaning me, Janet, and everyone else is essentially wiped, memories and all, and starts again from day one."

Hannibal blinks. Interesting.

"So if, for instance, a terrible accident were to occur," Hannibal continues. "You fell on your shears, or some such thing."

"I imagine it would make quite a mess," Lucas says. "But it wouldn't kill me. If something were to happen to my 'body', in as much as I have a body, Janet would have to make a new me, but that has never happened before."

"Of course," Hannibal says with a wide smile. "And let's hope nothing so unfortunate happens like that."

Lucas nods.

"Well, I believe I've kept you long enough. Thank you for indulging me." Lucas nods again, and stands, handing Hannibal the wine glass, and he grabs his gardening bag and hitches it over his shoulder, leaving the office with a little wave. Hannibal smiles, sitting back in his chair, and regards the fire.

He sips, idly, at the wine. No lingering saliva, no scent to tell him another person held it. Though he supposes people like Janet and Lucas and all the rest wouldn't leave a remnant of their being there behind. He sighs, and regards the book, sitting casually on his armrest. It appears he will have to do something quite drastic, to gain Will's attention.

But first, familiarity with the environment is paramount. No hunter simply wades into the great unknown without a plan, or a map, or a degree of knowledge of his surroundings, his environment, and his goal.

Hannibal's goal is to get Will's attention. He cannot do that with one of the residents, since he is unable to affect them, which means targeting Janet or one of her counterparts. Should be easy enough – they are all perfectly friendly, and trusting, and have no reason to doubt his word or his intentions. May not, even still, after he kills one of them, if they will be remade and lose all their previous memories.

It would be quite a neat arrangement, free of consequence.

Except.

The book told him that after the moment of the person's death, their point totals cease to change, meaning whatever Hannibal had at the moment of death, he will keep until the end. However, this experiment might affect some things – if actions have consequences in the afterlife now, things he will be evaluated for, he must be careful. It would be a terrible waste to make himself known to Will, to find a way to be with him, only to, at the end of the year, be robbed of that chance entirely.

He must figure out a way to communicate with Will. If Janet or her helpers will not aid him, and Hannibal cannot get representation, or speak the Judge, this responsibility is entirely in his hands.

He sighs, and opens the book again, wondering when the afterlife became so messy.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for mild homophobia and general shittiness from Mr. Gibson

Will avoids Tucker for as long as he can, but the fact of the matter is that files will keep piling up, and if what Janet said is true – which he believes it is, he has no reason to doubt her – then Will must move quickly. A thousand deaths stand between him and the potential to get Hannibal's file, and that would fill up the community three times over if he were to do nothing.

Plus, he doubts the Judge would let him get away with idleness for that long. The idea of letting it happen so she shows up is a tempting one, but Will can't do anything to jeopardize Hannibal's and his future, and he stamps it out before it can grow teeth.

So, with a sigh, he shoulders his messenger bag, the notebook that lets him see Hannibal tucked safely within it, and gathers the file. He waves his hand, correcting his clothes so they no longer hold the stains of his fight with the Dragon, until he's wearing slacks, comfortable black shoes, a blue button-down collared shirt, and leaves the house.

Tucker is sitting at one of the outside tables under a large, open blue and yellow umbrella, nursing a golden IPA and a slice of anchovy-olive pizza. A woman is with him, with long blonde hair and a dainty physique. Tucker is wearing his favorite red and black plaid shirt, jeans, heavy-looking boots, and the woman, whom Will assumes is Stephanie, is wearing a white floral sundress that goes to her knees. They are in quiet conversation, and look up as Will approaches.

"Hi, Will!" the woman chirps, and holds out her hand. "I'm Stephanie. I run the yoghurt shop."

Will nods at her, and shakes her hand briefly, and then looks at Tucker. The man looks just like his picture, his bulging beer gut and his wrinkled face just as Will pictured it. He holds out his hand. "Will Graham," he says, and Tucker gives him a nod, shakes his hand in that short and firm way older men do. "You must be Tucker Gibson. Welcome to the neighborhood."

"Thank you, Will," Tucker says. "Are you another resident?"

"In a way," Will replies, and takes a seat. Haima comes out of the pizzeria with another slice of Hawaiian, and sets the plate in front of Will with a smile, before she and Stephanie disappear into their respective shops. "I was human, died, ended up here."

He doesn't tell Tucker about his particular role in this community. The Jury should never allow themselves to be swayed.

Tucker gives him a small, sympathetic nod. "How'd it happen?"

Will swallows. "I fell," he says, and sits back in his chair, file and pizza ignored for now. "Off a cliff. Died on impact, or so I was told."

"Ouch," Tucker says with a wince. He seems like a fairly pleasant fellow, which Will would assume given a positive points total – then again, Hannibal had always been pleasant when it suited him, even to the end, and he's far in the negatives. "At least it was quick."

Will nods.

"I died in my sleep, apparently. Heart attack." Tucker laughs. "Figures – as soon as Elizabeth convinced me to go to the doctor and get myself in order, my body crepes out on me." He frowns. "'Crepe'. I didn't mean to say that."

Will grins. "We're not allowed to swear in The Good Place," he explains, and rolls his eyes. "'Shirt', 'Fork', 'Cork', yep, none of that."

Tucker huffs a laugh. "Of course," he says, and runs a hand over his bald head. "Though I can't say I mind it – everyone seemed to have gotten such bad language habits. Only degenerates talked like that in my town." Will blinks at him, head tilted.

"Degenerates, huh?" he repeats.

Tucker nods, his mouth turning down at the corners. "You know, all those young people. Tattooed, disrespectful, no work ethic." Will's frown deepens. "Back in my day we had some respect."

Will gives a noncommittal hum, his stomach turning a little sour at Tucker's tone.

"I certainly hope none of them show up here," Tucker continues, with a dismissive wave of his hand. Will blinks at him, a swirl of points totals and lists of decisions running behind his eyes. Tucker was, he notes, a staunch supporter of businesses that held similar beliefs to older, white conservatives. He shifts his weight, the uncomfortable knot tightening.

"What do you mean by 'them'?" he asks carefully, and picks at the pineapple on his pizza slice.

"Oh, you know," Tucker says with a huff. "Goshdarn liberals, the gays, the _unnatural_." Will blinks at him, swallows so he doesn't show his teeth, and hopes with a vicious inward snarl that the whole community gets flooded with 'unnatural' people just to fuck with him. "Choosing to live that lifestyle, it's terrible. My son thought he was gay and I sent him to one of those camps to set him on the straight path. I'm not really religious myself, anymore, but I feel better knowing it cured him."

Will blinks, another flash behind his eyes telling him that he did just that – Tucker's son, Henry, and the points total of sending him to one of those camps that gave him a negative five-hundred and forty-six. Will can't read Henry's file, knows nothing about him aside from what's directly related to Tucker's, and he swallows, clenching his free fist tight to his thigh below the table.

 _Fuck you_ , he thinks, viciously, and forces a thin smile. "Some might say that camps like that do more psychological harm than 'moral' good."

Tucker huffs. "Clearly it was the right decision," he says, and waves at their surroundings. "Got me to the Good Place."

Will smiles, more genuinely this time. "You're right," he purrs. "It got you here." _Where I could see what a piece of shit you are._ Tucker smiles at him, and Will stands, gathering his file and sending the pizza slice back with a wave of his hand. "Well, I won't keep you. Have a good day, Mister Gibson."

"Thank you, Will," Tucker says, and turns his attention back to his beer, sipping idly. Will turns away from him with a snarl, marching back up to his remake of Hannibal's house. He goes inside and, on the dining room table now, at Hannibal's seat, is a box. He goes to it, sees it gleaming a dull silver and lead, and on it is embossed the words 'Final Verdict'.

He searches through his knowledge of communities, until he finds the one he likes, and takes a pen from beside the box, writing the long number of the community on Tucker's file. It's one made to look like a run-down slum in a major city, full of people like mafiosos, crime lords, and young people swept up in the same. A perfect place for such an 'upright citizen' to end up. Will would rather save those young people, put them on a better path, for he knows environment can be just as damning as innate nature, but it's not within his power to do.

He places the file in the box, and it disappears with a little 'zip' sound, and a wash of light and color. He smiles, grimly satisfied, aware suddenly that he no longer has Tucker's personal information sitting in his head like a squatting frog.

Let's see how good old Mister Tucker Gibson fares in a place like that.

 

 

Hannibal's fingers curl, his chest black with outrage as he listens to Tucker and Will speak. He stands behind Will, wishing he could touch him, that he could be seen, and plants a hand on the edge of Will's shoulder.

"I'd kill him if I could," he murmurs, though neither Tucker nor Will react. Judgement of any kind has always prickled at Hannibal greatly, and seeing Will's subdued anger incenses him further, especially when the man mentions sending his son to conversion therapy. The things people do in the name of skewed righteousness and backwards morality never fails to make him angry.

He follows Will up to the house, but finds when he reaches the door, he cannot open it. He frowns, but his hand passes through the handle as if it were Will he was trying to touch.

"Janet?" he asks, and she appears with a 'Bing'. "Why can't I enter?"

"Because you have the ability to interact with inanimate objects, you cannot enter Will's house when Will is conscious inside it," she tells him with a bright smile. "He must remain impartial, as all Juries do."

Hannibal huffs, but steps back as the door opens again, and Will blinks, seeing Janet there. "Oh," he murmurs, and smiles at her. "Janet, good. I have some more questions for you."

Janet nods, walking with Will, Hannibal trailing behind like the most ignored third wheel, as they walk to the gazebo on the edge of the lake. Hannibal can see his office lookalike across the lake, and sighs, taking a seat next to Will, on the opposite side of him to Janet, knowing Will cannot perceive the building.

"What happened to make this experiment?" Will asks.

Janet blinks at him, shuts down for a moment, before returning with the information; "There was a Bad Place architect named Michael, who wanted to create a trial community where humans were taken and told they were in the Good Place. The idea was that these humans were perfectly designed to torture each other instead of having Bad Place workers doing it. An experiment in the act of psychological torture instead of purely physical."

Will blinks, and he and Hannibal smile at the same time. "Sounds…like it was a fun idea."

"Many thought so," Janet says with a nod. "The community was filled with Bad Place -. "She says a word that Hannibal frowns at, for it's not in English or any language he recognizes, but Will's language download must be working for him, because he nods. "And four humans were chosen that were perfectly suited to make each other miserable. The community ended up being rebooted over eight-hundred times."

Will frowns. "Rebooted?"

Hannibal already knows what that means from Lucas, and sits back as Janet explains the same to Will; "There is a switch only accessible by architects on the edge of the community. Pushing it resets me, which causes the entire community to start from day one with no memories or previous data. Like a video game!"

Will nods, frowning. "So what happened?"

"During each phase, the humans reacted in unanticipated ways. They chose, instead, to help and improve each other. I don't have all the details from that Janet, otherwise I would be able to give you more information, but what ended up happening is this current experiment. The Neutral Place holds all the Accountants, where points totals are evaluated and assigned for every human action on Earth. It was hypothesized that because the world is so complicated now, even 'good' decisions have unintended negative consequences. In the community, in the afterlife, points and effects cease to matter, so the experiment is there to determine if, when robbed of unintended consequence, humans are actually better than the points system gives them credit for."

Will nods, his brow heavily furrowed. Hannibal sighs – he wishes he could reach out and touch Will, wishes he could smooth the anxiety from his brow, calm his shaking hands.

"I believe it's why the Judge decided to use you for this community," Janet continues. "You have a better understanding of human nature, beyond what points would tell someone like me, or her, or any architect, and even with the consequences of the world, you are the first true zero to ever exist." Hannibal frowns, cocking his head. "You can see the intentions behind a decision rather than just their designated overall effects."

"Like killing a killer," Will murmurs. "Or 'curing' someone of being gay."

"Sure!" Janet says pleasantly.

Will nods again. He sighs, and runs his hands through his hair, and tugs at the messenger bag slung around his shoulder. He opens it, and pulls out a notebook, and Hannibal's head tilts curiously, standing and coming forward to see what Will is looking at. Within the book is something like a black tablet screen, and he watches Will frowning, tapping at it when it remains black.

"It's not working," he says, soft with something like panic.

Janet nods. She pats, gently, awkwardly, on Will's shoulder, and Hannibal swallows back a possessive snarl, wishing he could do the same. He reaches out and touches Will's hair as best he can, desperately wanting more than anything for Will to feel him.

"The book only shows Hannibal," she tells him. "If he is around any of the residents, it won't work."

Will blinks, frowning at her. "So he's not alone?" he whispers, and Hannibal isn't sure what to call the way Will breathes it. "He's with…people? Other people?"

Hannibal sucks in a breath. So…this book can show Will what he's doing. Will can _see_ him, through this. He might have seen Hannibal reading the book Janet gave him, might have seen him interacting with Lucas. Oh, _that_ is interesting.

Janet gives Will a kind smile. "He's in a community, just like you are, Will."

"So that means I'm not going to get his file, right? He's already been sorted?"

"It appears so," Janet says with a nod.

Will frowns, and Hannibal steps back, wondering if he should walk away, to become visible to Will again. But no, he won't leave Will now, not until he must.

"Are you lying to me?" Will asks.

"I am incapable of lying," Janet replies. "It's in my manual; any information I share must correspond with the objective truth."

Will presses his lips together, and closes his notebook with a snarl. "This is forking bullshirt," he growls, and stands. "Alright. _Fine_. I want a blueprint of this neighborhood. _All_ of it," he tells her. "Can you get that for me?"

Janet smiles, and pulls a large roll of paper from behind her back with another 'Bing'. "Here you go!"

Will takes it with a low, growling sound. "Thank you, Janet," he says. "Please leave now."

"You're welcome, Will!" she says, and disappears with another soft sound.

Will falls to his knees, spreading the blueprint out on the floor of the gazebo. Hannibal doesn't know what he's looking for, but watches as Will weighs down one corner with his notebook, another with his bag, and kneels on the bottom edge. His eyes dart around, and Hannibal crouches, tries to push at a third corner but finds his fingers pass through it again.

So, he cannot interact with Will's house while Will is awake inside it. Cannot, too, touch anything Will is touching. Another complication, but one possible to overcome. He eyes the blueprint, and sees a void where his own house would be, and sighs.

Will lets out a soft, aching noise, a runs a hand through his hair. "Hannibal," he whispers, and Hannibal looks up, finds Will's eyes are not on him, but on the lake, and Will presses his lips together, breathing in deeply. "If you can hear me, if you're here, if you're aware of me at all, I swear – to God, if there is one, to anything that runs this shirtshow, I'll find you."

Hannibal smiles, and stands, and presses a kiss to the edge of Will's hair, cupping his nape. He cannot touch, and doesn't feel Will's warmth, but it's nice to pretend. He can smell Will, though, minty and sweet as always, and breathes in greedily.

"Then, darling," he purrs, "I shall make myself easily found."

Will shivers, and Hannibal knows it's not because of him – Will cannot hear him, cannot feel him – but it's a nice thing, to pretend he can, all the same.


	6. Chapter 6

"Janet?"

She appears in Hannibal's study, beside him, with a soft 'Bing', her hands clasped in front of her and that same wide, pleasant smile on her face.

Hannibal returns it, sitting in his chair, and lifts a brow when she takes a seat in the opposite one, movements somewhat stiff, like she's been practicing sitting down and making herself appear comfortable. Even still, she sits completely upright, her hands in her lap, her heels tucked together and below the edge of the chair. His head tilts, and she smiles.

"How can I help you?" she asks.

"I was thinking about something you said to Will. You mentioned him being a 'zero'." She nods. "I have consulted the book, and no such thing is mentioned. Could you explain it to me?"

"Of course!" she replies with a happy chirp. "Every action made on Earth by a human is given a points total, based on positive or negative effects. Things like intent are also considered – so, for instance, doing a good thing for the sake of being good gives a different total than if you were, say, doing it for attention or another selfish reason."

Hannibal nods.

"Will doesn't have any positive or negative points. His total, at the time of death, was completely blank. A zero."

Hannibal tilts his head again, considering this with a low hum. "So did he not gain any or lose any points during his life?" he asks curiously. It seems such a strange idea, for Will has definitely done good things, and bad things, in the grand scheme, regardless of intent.

Janet blinks, eyes darkening and then brightening again. "I'm sorry, I can't access that information. I'm not allowed to discuss the actions of any resident during their time on Earth."

Hannibal nods. "Perfectly understandable," he says, and stands with a sigh. "Where is Will now?"

"He's in his house."

 _My house_ , Hannibal wants to argue. Refrains, for the sake of politeness. He nods. "I have noticed it bears a startling likeness to parts of my home, back on Earth," he tells her. "Was it always like that?"

"When this community was first built, a blueprint of the original experiment done by a Bad Place architect named Michael was used to create it, since no architect was allowed to design a new one for the Jury. However, Will's house originally was modeled after his one in Wolf Trap."

Hannibal blinks at that, a sudden flicker of surprised warmth curling in his chest, heavy with affection when he realizes that Will had chosen, of all the places in the world, to be in the place where he and Hannibal had spent the most time together. It is a telling sign of Will's devotion and attachment to him, and one Hannibal welcomes eagerly.

"So Will has the power to change things in the community."

"He does, yes. Though I warned him against making any drastic changes. He was allowed to alter his house to whatever he liked, and has moderate summoning abilities like my counterparts do. Any huge change, however, could alter the fragile ecosystem of the community."

"I wonder," he says idly, "would you be able to convince him to leave his house? If only for a moment."

"I'll do my best!" Janet says, and disappears with a 'Bing'. Hannibal leaves his office immediately, hurrying past the lake, up to the little town part of the community. Sees that the older man Will had been sitting with is no longer there, his plate of pizza and his beer abandoned. He smiles, and hopes Will sent him somewhere fitting.

He approaches the house as Will opens the door, squinting up at the bright sunlight, looking disheveled and haggard. He is pulling a coat around his shoulders, though the day is perfectly pleasant – Hannibal smiles, when he sees it is, in fact, not one of Will's coats, but one of his own.

He reaches out to touch Will, and sighs when Will passes right through his hand.

He goes inside, and finds the blueprint of the community Will requested spread out on his table, weighed down by a few glasses and a large silver box with the words 'Final Verdict' stamped across it.

He sees, by the box, a single pen, uncapped and discarded off-kilter. He picks it up, pleased to find he can manipulate the object with Will not in the house, and flattens his hand on the curl of the blueprint, until he sees the large blank space where his house should be.

He puts the pen to it, and draws a neat square fitting the dimensions of his study. Inside, he tries to write his name, but frowns when, not a moment after dotting the 'I', it fades away. He huffs. "Must remain impartial," he murmurs. So he cannot write his name there.

He sighs, eyeing the other buildings in the community. Sees 'Will's House', 'Yoghurt Shop', 'Pizzeria', a grocery store, houses labeled one through one-hundred-and-sixty-one. So, residents are designed to be paired up. Interesting. Sees the labels for the lake, the gazebo, the far-off mountains next to a little arrow, forests surrounding the edge of the community that fade into nothingness. Wonders, absently, where the switch to reset the community might lie, for he does not see it labeled here.

He purses his lips, idly tapping the pen as he considers what he might write, that wouldn't give himself away or break whatever rules the power holds over this place that renders Will unable to perceive him. It must be something Will would understand, something that would tell him, without a doubt, that Hannibal is here, that he is watching.

He doesn't have a lot of time before Will returns, he's sure – even as he stands there, contemplating, a file appears in front of the verdict box, sealed in plastic so Hannibal cannot tamper with it, and he sighs again. Will might be alerted of its arrival, and will be returning soon. He doesn't have a lot of time.

…Time. Time and teacups and the rules of disorder. What a fitting place this is, to explore such things.

Hannibal smiles.

 

 

Will enters his house, sighing heavily and shrugging off his bag, placing it and the notebook inside carefully on one of the chairs. Buster isn't in his bed, probably off chasing squirrels all the live-long day. Will runs a hand through his hair, eagerly embracing the silence.

Janet had wanted to introduce him to all the rest like her within the community. There was Haima, and Stephanie, and George who runs the grocery store – a tall, ox-like man with a smile that could blind someone. There was Derek, and Lucas, who served the role of groundskeeper and gardener, respectively. Will had narrowed his eyes at Lucas' bright, messy red hair, certain that that had been the person Hannibal was talking to – he cannot, after all, as Janet told him, see Hannibal when he's with another resident.

He hadn't gotten a chance to ask, swept up immediately in a chorus of Janet counterparts as they'd introduced themselves, chattering away in that same bright, happy tone, and even though there hadn't been all that many of them, he feels the echo of a headache sitting heavy on his skull, and grumbles to himself as he eyes the blueprint.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, and hopes that migraines aren't still a thing in the afterlife. Maybe if he was in the Good Place, but he's starting to think that, like the Judge said, this isn't meant to be particularly _good_ for him. Just more of the same, which means too many people and too much information constantly downloading into his brain, and _still_ , somehow, not just being able to exist in peace and quiet with the only man who has never made him feel like he might vibrate out of his own skin.

There is a file on the edge of the table, and he sighs again heavily, going to it. He pulls off the plastic sheet, frowning, because the first one didn't have one, but discards it with a shake of his head and opens the file.

Winces as, immediately, a bright blue screen appears before him, giving him the bruised and black-eyed image of a woman. She can't be older than nineteen – isn't, he realizes, her actions and points totals swimming behind his eyelids in a bloom of mostly red. Drug addict. Forced prostitution. Died in a shootout when her pimp pissed off the wrong guy.

He winces, and slams the file down with a snarl, onto the corner of the blueprint that shows the lake. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, gritting his teeth, and shakes his head vehemently. Her name was Natalie Price, she was sold by her gambling addict father when she was fifteen to a guy who -.

"Stop," he snarls, trying to will the points and actions away. Her first time having sex, her first shot of heroin, her first john. First STI, first -. _Stop, stop, red, red, red_. Negative, negative…

"That's not her fault," he growls to the room at large. "That's not her fucking fault, none of it is." Still, more actions keep coming, drugs and coercion, bodily damage taken by alcohol and fists and terrible men. "Stop!"

He yanks on his hair savagely, breathing out a sigh of relief when the stiff lance of dulled pain makes him blink, the dining room returning to him, nothing left of Natalie but her file, sitting on the corner of the blueprint. Will breathes a weak sigh of relief, touching the back of the nearest chair. Feels, burning in his eyes, the beginnings of tears that are not quite sorrow, not quite wrath.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers, and touches her file. Reaches for the pen that is -.

He stops, frowning. Not where he left it.

He searches the table, finds the pen sitting not by the box, but on a section of the blueprint. His frown deepens – he would know if a resident was here and could have moved it, and Janet was just introducing him to all her counterparts; it couldn't have been one of them.

Breath catching, eyes wide, he reaches out and takes the pen, and sees what was drawn below it.

It's a square, sitting on the edge of the lake where Will knows there is only blank space. Inside the square is -. He gasps, leaning in, brushing his shaking fingers over the dark lines the pen made, not quite believing.

Inside the square is a doodle of a teacup – it clearly had been done in a rush, but Will knows the particularity of shading, has imagined such a broken thing forming and reforming over and over again. Sees the fine filigree of cracks, the shadow cast in the drawing of the teacup that turns, instead, into a single '0', and a clock with all the numbers clustered in the bottom right corner.

Why he didn't write his name, or something more direct, Will doesn't know, but he doesn't doubt for a second who drew this. Hannibal. Hannibal is _here_.

More tears fill his eyes. Not quite rage, not quite sorrow. Anger, that the Judge sought to trick him; outrage with Janet, for her not-quite lies; pride, for Hannibal to once again refuse to bow and bend to the rules of the universe, and make himself known to Will.

With shaking hands, he straightens, and grabs the notebook from his messenger bag. Opens it, and grins when the screen comes to life, showing Hannibal in his study, sitting behind his big, dark desk. He's writing something, but in front of him, on a folded piece of paper and large in his arcing script, are the words 'Hello, Will'.

Will gasps, covering his mouth with his hand, swallowing harshly so he doesn't sob. So Hannibal knows he's here, too. He made himself known – knows, somehow, that Will can see him through this notebook. Oh, that Goddamn brilliant, cunning, _relentless_ man. The pulse of warmth in his chest is too fierce to be affection, too fond to be purely relief.

No, he thinks he might be wearing the same expression Hannibal wore on the edges of the cliffs, when they were covered in blood and Will called him 'Beautiful'.

He closes the notebook, trembling and frantic. He has to go to Hannibal's house, has to try and learn how to communicate with him – now that he knows Hannibal is here, the idea of spending a single second longer not in his presence, even if Will cannot perceive it, is unthinkable. Hannibal has always been there, sitting in his skull, a purring beast of shadow, and Will needs that feeling again, in whatever way he can get it.

But first, Natalie.

He searches through the communities he knows, finds one full of genuinely good people, with love and light in their hearts, all of them with positive totals around the two million. Mostly women, he notes with a huff, but is glad to see it, and sees a flash of soft, white-sandy beaches like Natalie used to visit with her mother when she was a child. Sees a place where there are no dark alleys, no cigarette smoke, no loud raucous laughter and beer and flashes of knives.

Sees it, and thinks it looks wonderfully peaceful, and sends her there, her file disappearing into the verdict box with another noise and flash of light.

 

 

Will runs to the place where he knows Hannibal's house is, and when he approaches, sees nothing but neatly-trimmed lawn. He scowls at it, and opens the notebook, sitting down on the edge of the lake. Hannibal is still there, writing away – or perhaps he's sketching as he so often does, a glass of wine beside him and that clarion call, that 'Hello, Will', still on garish display.

He sets the notebook on his lap, and does not know where he finds the strength in his voice, but he cups his hands to his mouth and yells, "Hannibal!"

Hannibal straightens, on the screen, his eyes flashing and his nostrils flaring as he breathes in deeply. He rises from his place, and Will smiles when he sees the same frantic energy he feels in his own chest, as Hannibal dons his suit jacket, throwing it over his shoulders, prepared to rush outside.

But then, he hesitates, and looks around the room. The image of him shifts so that Will appears to be standing right in front of him, and for a moment, it's like Hannibal's eyes are meeting his openly through the screen. He clears his throat, looks down at his pages, and takes the folded one on which he wrote 'Hello, Will'.

Turns it, and sits back down, writing instead; "If I come to you, the screen will go blank."

Will sighs. "I know," he says, gentling his voice so that it's only slightly raised. He cannot go into the house, and Hannibal cannot come out of it. His chest aches at the thought. "Can you still hear me?"

Hannibal smiles, and nods.

"I've missed you," he writes on his paper.

Will wants to laugh. Wants to cry. Does neither. "Try talking," he commands. "I might be able to hear you."

Hannibal's mouth moves, and though Will sees it, he hears nothing.

"Shirt," he mutters, and Hannibal's lips twitch in a smile both fond and similarly exasperated. "Alright, looks like it's letters and yelling for the time being." Hannibal nods again, sitting back in his chair, his eyes dark and position lax, the picture of ease. Will envies his ability to relax in this place. "Are you okay? How long have you been here?"

Hannibal nods, and bows forward, writing quickly over a new page in his book. He lifts it, showing Will his writing, and Will leans in, squinting to read it.

"I think I must have arrived shortly before you did, or soon after. Janet told me the community was created to house me."

Will frowns. "You can talk to Janet?"

Hannibal nods, and writes again; "I can interact with her and her counterparts, and move inanimate objects provided that you are not around to see it."

Will's lips twitch in a snarl. "Right. Impartial."

"An important characteristic in a Jury," Hannibal writes with a thin smile. Will huffs, and wipes a hand over his face. "And you, Will? Are you alright?"

"I'm not entirely convinced this isn't Hell, but other than that I'm peachy," Will mutters, then says it louder when Hannibal frowns, cocking his head as if to listen. Upon his repetition, Hannibal smiles. He looks…good. He looks okay. Clearly whatever magical cosmic healing powers robbed Will of his scars and aches, they have had similar effect on Hannibal. Will sees no blood on him, no scrapes, no wince when he moves. He's certain Hannibal wouldn't be drinking wine if he was still suffering from a gunshot wound.

"This is bullshirt," Will hisses, and Hannibal's eyes flash again. "I should be allowed to see you, to talk to you. I'm not forking impartial and I never will be."

Hannibal sighs, and writes; "I agree with you, Will, but you must be sure not to do anything reckless." His lips quirk in a smile. "Though I think that would be like asking a leopard to change his spots."

"I could say the same for you," Will replies with a huff. "You messed with the blueprint; you wanted me to find you."

"I will always want that – for you to know exactly where I am, and how to find me," Hannibal writes, and Will aches at the openness on Hannibal's face. He cannot resist touching the screen with trembling fingers, wishing, God, _wishing_ he could touch him for real.

Hannibal sighs, and sets his book down, and writes for a long time before showing it to Will; "I'll admit, I had intended to kill one of Janet's counterparts, if I didn't have another way of getting your attention. I still might, if only for my own amusement and curiosity. But I'm hesitant to do anything that would take me away from you."

Will nods; he understands, and while he's sure he would have loved to see Hannibal trying so desperately to reach out to him, he is glad it didn't turn to bloodshed before that – or whatever it is that Janets bleed.

"You have to be careful," he says. He's starting to hurt from speaking so loud, and hopes Janet and her counterparts aren't paying attention, for surely this violates some kind of rule. "You have a lot of negative points, Hannibal, if you do anything worse it might mean even after reevaluation, you get sent somewhere bad."

Hannibal nods, sighing.

"I told the Judge I'm going where you go, though, wherever that happens to be."

Hannibal frowns, and shakes his head, starts to write.

"Shut up," Will snaps, and Hannibal blinks at the empty space he imagines Will must be, his frown deepening. "That's not up for discussion. Being tortured but with you is better than being a Jury, or being sent wherever zeroes go at the end – if I'm even still a zero, after the experiment." He doesn't know how much Hannibal knows about that, but his expression isn't one of confusion, and Will wouldn't put it past him to try and get all the information out of Janet that he could while he's here.

He sighs. "I need to speak to the Judge."

Hannibal nods. "Janet told me it's not possible to reach her."

"Yeah, well, you're not the only one who's good at getting people's attention."

Hannibal smiles at him, his eyes bright with pleasure and pride. He nods again.

"I'll think of something," Will assures him, aching and aching and _wishing_ he could touch. "I swear I will. You just have to…keep your head down. Lay low for a while and don't do anything stupid." Hannibal's lips twitch in displeasure. "You're just as reckless as I am, don't pretend otherwise."

Hannibal blinks, his smile growing somewhat sheepish, and writes; "Only when it comes to you, I think."

Will smiles, and sits back with another heavy sigh. "I'll think of something," he says again, and then looks down at the screen. "I wish I could see you for real. Touch you." Do other things. He bites his lip so he doesn't say it, but sees a mirroring desire in Hannibal's eyes, a curl in his fingers and tension in his shoulders that tells Will his need is far from unrequited. They are both here, stuck in stasis, this perverted Purgatory, so close to touching and being together and yet unable to.

Will sighs again. "Come sit with me," he begs, and Hannibal tilts his head. "I'm outside. I know I won't be able to see you, to feel you. But I just want to know you're with me." Hannibal presses his lips together, and sighs through his nose. "Please?"

Hannibal bows his head, and nods, and then he smiles, wide. He rises from his chair, wine and papers discarded, and Will sees him leave the room that looks like his office, and open a door, and the screen goes black.

Will moves to one side, freeing up a space on the fake lawn. Doesn't see the grass dip with pressure, doesn't see the water ripple if it's being touched. But he knows Hannibal is here, with him, and it's almost enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not even cosmic intervention can keep these guys apart, can it? xD


	7. Chapter 7

It doesn't take long for the relief and the happiness to fade, and be devoured by pure wrath. How _dare_ the Judge, and Janet, and all her counterparts try and hide Hannibal from him. How _dare_ she make Will think he was all alone in this place, and would be alone for a fucking year, and then – what? At the end of the experiment, after reevaluation, he would be sent wherever Hannibal would go. And that promises to be a very Bad place unless the points totals and the Accountants and all the other crap Janet has told him about start looking very favorably on murder.

He sighs, running his hand through his hair. After a while, sitting by the lake, the screen that shows him Hannibal had lit back up, as Hannibal returned to his house, and he'd explained that Janet told him he could not interact with inanimate objects if Will was around – he cannot be in Will's house, enter or leave it, when Will is there. He can't pull out a chair outside one of the restaurants when Will is out in the street, probably wouldn't even be able to open his office door if Will was able to see the building at all.

It's all awful, the opposite of the glass prison in which Hannibal was sentenced and starved for three years. Worse, maybe, for they are both truly, utterly free of the consequences in the afterlife, Will with his true zero status, the ultimate Jury, and Hannibal free to wander and do as he pleases, but they cannot see each other. Will can't be with him and know where he is all at once.

It's the Heisenberg uncertainty principle; he can't measure Hannibal's position and velocity at the same time.

Beside him, on the table and propped up by the verdict box, sits his notebook screen, showing him Hannibal as he wanders idly through the streets in the community. Through him, beside him, Will sees more of it than he tried to before – little winding streets reminiscent of clustering old towns, places so narrow cars could not venture.

He smiles, and idly twists his hand, and in front of Hannibal, forming in a crack in the cobblestones, grows a single, bright-colored flower. Hannibal pauses, looking at it, and kneels down in front of it. Will sees him lift his eyes, sees him smile, but when he tries to touch it, he cannot.

Hannibal sighs, and in his pocket he carries a little notepad and a pen now. He writes; "I don't think I can interact with it when you're watching me, since you made it. Like your house." Will sighs, but, in answer, summons a bird, which takes the flower in its beak, pulls it free, and flits away. Hannibal's brows lift, and he stands, watching the bird disappear over the rooftops. Will is going to have it bring the flower to Hannibal's office, and lay it there for him to retrieve later.

He knows, absently, that this is ridiculous behavior. But it's worth it, to see Hannibal smile like that.

This is how it has been for days now, so many Will dares not count them. Files come and go, and Will is exhausted, certain now that there is no real end in sight – if he is to evaluate every border soul that dies within the next year, and merely a thousand already took place between his death and Hannibal's, it's a daunting task, a workload he can't even begin to fathom. And it's so _much_ , knowing everyone's life and actions within a blink of a download. Some of them are lackluster, boring, and some of them so terrible, like Natalie. Others still are genuinely good people whom he has no trouble sorting into an appropriate community.

But he doesn't care about them. He wouldn't have in life and he certainly doesn't in death. Odd, he thinks, how eternity has only served to make him more impatient.

He is certain, and acknowledges it with heavy resignation, that he will not get Hannibal's file. He won't be able to sort him, for Hannibal has already been sorted into Will's community by some weird cosmic loophole in Will's own design. Whether the Judge simply didn't want Will to see his file, or have him sort Hannibal somewhere he'd be happier, or whatever the reason, Will doesn't think it'll come to him by natural means.

He pauses, frowning mid-thought.

"Janet."

She appears behind the table with another 'Bing', and smiles at him. "Hi, Will! What can I do for you?"

Will closes the notebook with another sigh, so that she doesn't see how he's been watching Hannibal. He doesn't know if she even has it in her to be a snitch, but if she's some kind of database and this community ends up being another point of study in the 'experiment', Will doesn't want her knowing that.

"I wonder," he says slowly. "If I were to ask for a specific person's file, would you be able to get it for me?"

"That depends," she replies brightly. "Normally file acquisition is only available to Accountants, or to architects, and only for those within their community." Will nods, considering that. "The architect Michael, for instance, only had ready access to the four humans upon the time of the initial experiment, and right now only those four and the additional ones in the study would be available to him, unless they were accessed from the Neutral Place."

Will's head tilts. _Technically_ , Hannibal _is_ in Will's community.

"I'd like the file of Doctor Hannibal Lecter," he says to her. "Can I get that?"

Another light 'Bing' happens, and she holds a file out from behind her back, and offers it to him. Will takes it, breathless, his hands shaking. She doesn't comment on his choice, and Will doesn't offer any explanation.

"Do you need anything else?" she asks.

Will swallows, looking at the blank cover of the file. His fingers curl around it, and his knuckles go white.

"I think I'm going to need something to drink," he says. "Strong."

Another 'Bing'. A full bottle of whiskey and a glass appears in her hands, and he sets the file down with something like reverence, and takes them from her. The glass has ice in it, and he gives her a nod and a smile. "Thanks, Janet, that'll be all for now."

"You're welcome!" she chirps, and disappears with another sound.

Will opens the whiskey, and pours it into the tumbler until it's full. He doesn't know if he's even capable of getting drunk in this place, or if he'll have a hangover, but that's a problem for future him and he doesn't really care. He swallows the whiskey, hisses at the sharp burn, the full flavor as it explodes in his mouth and feels like it robs him of air.

Pours another glass. Drinks it down.

He looks at the folder. This is everything Hannibal has ever done, from the moment he was born. Every decision, every sin, every action and counteraction. His deeds as the Ripper will be in here. His time in Florence with Bedelia. His interactions with Will – all of it, and so much more. And Will can know it all. He could see it all, in the blink of an eye, as soon as he opens the folder.

He sets the glass down, sighs, and stands, grabbing his notebook and the folder, and pushes them into his messenger bag. He slings the strap over his shoulder, and goes to Hannibal's office.

 

 

Hannibal looks up, as Will calls his name. He smiles, looking down at the flower by his pen, which he had found on his doorstep when he'd returned to his office. "Hannibal!" he hears Will call – he has opened the window in his office, so he can hear more clearly, and his head tilts, and he gives a nod, knowing Will can see him. "Come outside. I need to show you something."

Hannibal blinks, frowning, but obeys, dusting his hands on his jacket and leaving the office. He finds Will sitting by the lake again, and Will lifts his head, closing his notebook, and turns to one side. He looks lovely in the sunlight, his eyes bright, hair tousled by an absent breeze. He is looking to his right, and so that is where Hannibal goes, wishing to pretend that Will can see him as he approaches, and sits down beside him.

He sighs, and brushes his fingers on the edge of Will's cheek. "Hello, darling."

Will pauses for a moment, and moment longer, until he looks down at the black screen, and nods. He sets it to one side, and from his bag he pulls a single folder. There is no name, no designated markings on it that gives Hannibal a clue as to what's inside. He eyes it curiously, head tilted when Will doesn't open it, but lets it rest on his thighs.

"I need to tell you something," Will says to the open air, his eyes on the lake. Hannibal would give anything, do anything, to be able to touch him. He cannot even make a sound, knowing Will can't hear him. "I asked Janet, and she said I was able to get any file of someone who came through this community, like I was one of the architects."

Hannibal nods. His fingers trail through the grass, unable to pull or bend the strands, but he feels them tickling against his skin.

"This is yours."

Hannibal freezes, his eyes widening, and he fixes his gaze on the side of Will's face.

Will sighs. "I haven't opened it," he says, like Hannibal might scold him. Like Will would even be able to see or hear him do it. "But I wanted to let you know I have it. If I open this, if I look, I'll see everything."

Hannibal swallows, and isn't quite sure what to call the emotion he feels upon hearing that. Having Will know him, see him like that, would be the most intimate thing he could imagine, but there are parts of Hannibal he wouldn't want even Will to know. Things he's done, that he had to bear witness to, that he would not wish upon his Will.

"I want to look," Will confesses. "But I won't unless you say it's okay. And I won't…file you, or sort you. Or send you somewhere else. I know neither of us want that." Hannibal lets out a soft growl, glad that Will understands that; he doesn't want to be sent anywhere else. Being with Will in any measure is better than having full rein somewhere else, but without him. "Files like this will tell me _everything_ , Hannibal. Your thoughts, your actions, your motivations. Things I still don't know about. It'll tell me how you felt, doing what you did. It'll tell me how…how _I_ make you feel."

His fingers curl around the edges of the folder, knuckles white, and he looks down at it. Hannibal aches, deeply, and feels a heady surge of wrath again that he cannot speak to Will, cannot touch him, cannot wipe the look of pain from his face.

"I'm so forking angry, Hannibal," he says, and Hannibal looks at him as Will turns his head to the right again. Doesn't look at him, but Hannibal ducks his head and pretends Will can see him. "After everything we've been through, we deserve to be together. I hate this. I _hate_ that I can't see you except through this forking notebook. I hate that I don't know what you're doing when you're with me. I _hate_ it."

"I hate it too, darling," Hannibal breathes, and wishes Will could hear him.

Will shivers, a deeply aching sound of loss spilling from him, and he rubs his hands over his face, up through his hair. His eyes shine with tears, and he swallows.

"If I'd known…"

He doesn't say anything else. Hannibal doesn't need him to – he understands, he has always understood Will, unpredictable though he is. Introspection and retrospection are keen skills within both of them. If they'd known, _if they'd known_ , oh, how different Hannibal would have made their final moments. He would have gripped Will so tightly on the cliff, would have never let him go. Would have died, perhaps, knowing what it feels like to touch Will in all the ways he aches for.

Will sighs, and drops his hands, blinking the tears away. "I won't open it until you say I can," he promises. "And if you never say I can, that's okay too. The decision is yours."

Hannibal nods, and swallows harshly.

"Janet!" Will calls, and she appears behind them with a soft 'Bing'. He stands, gathering the notebook and file and putting them away, and Hannibal follows suit. "Can I have _my_ file?"

She summons it, and holds it out. Will takes it, sighing heavily, and drops it on the ground beside his feet. She disappears when Will waves her away, with another soft sound.

He looks in the vague direction of where Hannibal is standing, bites his lower lip, and swallows, shoulders rolling. "I don't know if you'll be able to read it," he says quietly, and Hannibal's fingers curl, his heart hammering behind his ribs as he starts to understand, to realize, what Will is offering. "Maybe Janet can translate it for you, but if you can – you can." He nods to himself, runs a hand through his hair, and breathes out heavily.

"I want you to know everything. Even if you don't want me to know everything about you. I want you to know."

"Oh, _Will_ ," Hannibal whispers. He can't grab the file when Will is here, but he understands – when Will leaves, he is free to open it. To read everything about this beautiful, terrifyingly vibrant man he has chosen to call his own. He will know what Will feels for him. He will know how he affected Will.

He will know _everything_.

Will sighs, and reaches out, and Hannibal takes his hand, growling when Will's fingers pass through his own. But it's a mimic of an embrace, of touch, and Will feels warmer than he did before. Hannibal frowns down at his hand, for not even yesterday he was unable to feel how Will moved within the air. Smell him, yes, and see him affect his surroundings. But he was never warm. He never felt alive.

Something is changing, and Hannibal doesn't know what it is, but he's ravenous to see it run its course.

Will's hand drops, and he sighs, and manages a weak smile. "Let me know what you decide," he says quietly, and taps on his bag where the notebook is. "Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."

They both huff laughs, at that. Then, Will sighs again, and presses his lips together. Looks like he wants to say more, but must know it's fruitless, because Hannibal cannot give him a real answer as they stand. Will turns away, and Hannibal follows him for a few steps, pausing when Will frowns, and looks behind him.

Tilts his head.

"Can you hear me, Will?" Hannibal breathes, aching, _aching_. "Can you feel my eyes on you?"

Will's frown deepens, and he bites his lower lip. Then, he sighs, and walks away. Hannibal watches him, before he disappears from sight, and he picks up Will's file, and goes back inside.


	8. Chapter 8

Janet appears to Will with a soft 'Bing', startling him where he's sitting in the gazebo, staring at the place where he knows Hannibal's office sits, now. He jumps, flushing guiltily even though he wasn't exactly doing anything wrong, and looks up at her when she smiles at him.

"Hey, Janet," he says. "What's up?"

"A request came in for a translation of your file," Janet says. "I need your approval before I can do it."

Will stiffens, straightening in place. He knows of only one person who would need a translation of his file. He nods rapidly, his eyes on the blank space where Hannibal is. "Yeah, sure. Go ahead."

Janet nods, and disappears with another sound. Will takes his notebook out of his bag, opens it to see Hannibal sitting behind his desk, Will's file in his hands. As if sensing his gaze, Hannibal smiles, and looks up when Janet appears to him. They exchange words that Will doesn't hear, and he can't tell what Janet is saying, since her back is turned, but then, in front of Hannibal's desk, appears a large box, like an evidence box. Then another. Then another.

Will's eyes widen, as box after box after box appears around Hannibal's desk, cascading across the floor. Huge stacks of them, and Hannibal stands, blinking at the piles. There are no less than thirty, each of the stacks piled four-high. More and more, and it's so strange to think that his life contained so much. Stranger still, to think that it could all be reduced to something as simple as evidence boxes.

Hannibal goes to the nearest one, opening it, and inside the box is a thick cluster of papers, clipped together in various thicknesses. On the box is a date, which Will doesn't remember holding any significance to him, but Hannibal takes the first sheath of paper and eyes the first page, brows lifting as he reads it.

Will frowns. "Janet," he says, and she appears. "Why are there so many boxes?"

"The language used in the afterlife is a very condensed alphabet, to allow all the information of a person's life and decisions and points to fit into a single file. Expanding the information to allow humans to read it is like running it through a translator seven thousand times, but each translation has to be added, and then condensed afterwards."

Will blinks, and isn't quite sure he understands, but he won't question it.

"Right now he's reading through the night you adopted Winston."

Will smiles, ducking his gaze and watching Hannibal. Watches his face soften with something like affection, as he takes the papers to the chairs by his fireplace, and sits down, getting comfortable to read it. The night had been cold, that time of year, Winston an easy dog once Will first earned his trust. Hannibal shines in the firelight, his expression gentle, almost adoring, as he reads.

"Will it have my thoughts, my feelings, all that?"

"It will have the justification behind your decisions. Why you pulled over for the dog. Why you decided to approach him, and bathe him, and take him in, yes."

Will nods. Hannibal seems content to simply sit and read, and he has a lot to cover, and while Will could happily spend the entire day sitting and watching him, it feels like a strangely intimate thing, when Hannibal isn't answering. He wonders if this is what it would be like to be a studied creature, the only true act of observation that doesn't change the behavior of the observed.

The observer, though, well. Will feels himself changing by the minute.

But he can't linger. He has files waiting for him, and he's hungry. The thought of eating pizza or frozen yoghurt makes his nose wrinkle, and he stands, putting the notebook away as Janet disappears with another 'Bing'. He folds his arms across his chest, nods at Lucas where he's trimming a hedge by the lake, and begins the trek up through the main street, as path and pavement becomes cobblestones, trees and lawn melts into stone buildings with those ugly umbrellas and tall roofs. He thinks, in any other circumstance, he might actually like it here.

"Hey, Janet?" he asks, and she appears, falling into step beside him. Will sees Buster running around the tables, one of which is occupied by Haima and another resident. His name is Andreas, Will hasn't read his file or sorted him yet but he knows his name, because he asked. They exchange nods as Will passes.

"How can I help you, Will?"

"The Judge told me there's a Good Place, and a Bad Place," he says, and she nods, smiling brightly. "What about…. I don't know. Is there a Normal Place?"

"There is, as a matter of fact!" Janet replies. "Though we call it the Medium Place. It has a single resident, and is the current location of the experiment." Will pauses, looks at her, brows lifting. "During her life, Mindy Saint Claire was not a particularly Good person, but in her death, a lot of Good Points were accumulated. It was unclear whether she should get credit for them, so the powers that be placed her there."

Will tilts his head. Says, carefully, "Is it possible to reach this place?"

"By train!" Janet chirps in reply. Will nods, remembering the train station he had seen on the edge of the community. A single track runs in and out, but he didn't see on the blueprint where it went. "Architects can use a Janet to call a train between the Good and Bad Place, and the Medium Place, as well."

Will frowns. "Would… _I_ be able to call for a train?"

"Using me. Yes."

…Interesting.

"I will warn you, though, Will, if you were to leave the community the Judge placed you in, all the rules and regulations put on you would disappear. Your powers, too – even I have limited ability in the Medium Place, and wouldn't even be able to call a train for you to leave."

Will nods, absently, wetting his lips. "Would the Judge know I went there?"

"If she were to visit the community, she would notice your absence, and mine. She would then be able to check the Bad Place and know you were not there as well. So, essentially, yes, she'd be able to figure it out."

And she might be compelled to visit, if Will let the files pile up. If he stopped sorting people – he's not fool enough to think that she isn't paying attention, at least to the broad scope of things while he's here. He's been here almost three weeks now, and heard no mention of her. Because he's been doing his job, keeping his head down and himself out of trouble.

But if he _left_ …

He approaches the house, smiling as Buster darts past him and inside, the dog door clicking shut. "Thank you, Janet, I appreciate you answering my questions."

"No problem, Will. I'm just a call away!" she says, grinning, and gives him two thumbs up, before she disappears with another 'Bing'.

Will enters the house, heavy with thought. So, there is a place where, for all intents and purposes, he and Hannibal _would_ be free. If he called a train, and went to the Medium Place, he wouldn't be a Jury anymore. And Hannibal, by extension, wouldn't be hidden from him anymore. He thinks that's true – if even Janet's powers are limited in the Medium Place, that means that, in theory, the Judge's must be also, and Will would be able to see him, to hear him.

His fingers curl, and his heart pounds, heavy, behind his ribs.

Hannibal's file is still in his messenger bag – this, with his notebook, he would never risk leaving for the wrong people to find. He wants to read it, more desperately than he wants to eat or breathe. He needs to know what Hannibal was thinking, the times he tricked and coerced Will. The time when Will was in prison and Hannibal was so… _something_ …that he was compelled to work to free him. Wants to know how Hannibal felt when he eased the gun from Will's hand, stopping him killing Clarke Ingram where he knelt. Wants to know what Hannibal was thinking when he butchered the man he turned into a broken heart. Wants to know about Hannibal's interactions with Abigail, when Will thought she was dead. What he did with her, if he loved her like Will did. Wants to know how Hannibal felt the night his knife met Will's stomach.

Wants to know, in no uncertain terms, how he felt the moments before they died.

And more than that, he wants to give Hannibal time to know him. He wants Hannibal to read about the dragonfly, about Will's conversation with Matthew that earned him the now-gone scars on his wrists. Wants Hannibal to hear what Will said to Jack. Wants Hannibal to know that Will _wanted_ to go with him. That he would have, if he'd known the truth.

He wants, desperately, for Hannibal to read, to understand, that Will isn't going anywhere without him again.

He needs to tell Hannibal what he's found out. If Hannibal insists on staying, on reading Will's file, he will. If Hannibal lets Will read his, Will can before they leave. So much of the darkness between them was a simple lack of communication, a jagged-edged set of puzzle pieces that would fit in the grand design if they would simply let them. Death has left Will hollow, in a way supremely different than in life, and Hannibal fills his edges and caverns, surrounds his borders, and Will won't go anywhere without Hannibal at his side.

Decided, he turns away from his house, and rushes to the lake.

 

 

"Hannibal! Hannibal, come out!"

Hannibal lifts his head, entire being soaring at the sound of Will's voice. He rises from his seat, discarding the stack of papers he had been reading depicting Will's first interactions with Jack, and rushes from his office.

He sees Will, sitting by the lake as he has done so often, his back turned, his eyes on the water. The notebook is in his hands, and as Hannibal approaches, it goes black.

Will lifts his head, smiles in the direction Hannibal angles himself, so that he can pretend Will can see him, and he takes his seat and, because he can and hating it still because Will doesn't feel it, he pets through his soft, tousled hair. Will's cheeks are flushed, like he had run here.

"I need to tell you something," Will says, after a few more beats of silence. Hannibal's head tilts, and he lets out a soft sound of encouragement, remembering too late that Will, of course, can't hear it. "Janet told me about this place – the Medium Place. I can go there, and I wouldn't have any of my powers, and neither would she."

He pauses, and swallows, and says; "I think I'd be able to see you, there."

Hannibal's breath catches, and his eyes widen. He wants to touch Will, wants to cup his face and say 'Yes, _yes_ , let's go there immediately'. He has spent three years in a prison cell, denied even a hint of Will's presence, and these last weeks have been even more torturous than that. Worse than the brand. Worse than starvation.

"I don't know, though, for certain," Will adds, his brow creasing in concern. "And if it didn't work, there's no way back here. We'd be stuck, until someone came looking for us. And I think the Judge might – and, I mean, it's breaking the rules. There might be…consequences."

"Damn the consequences," Hannibal growls. But Will doesn’t hear him, of course.

He sighs, looking down. "I know you've been reading my file," he says, and Hannibal nods, because Janet had to ask Will for authorization to translate his file. He hasn't made much progress, of course, but he's ravenous to read it all. "I don't think we could take it all with us, and if I went, I wouldn't be able to just insta-download yours."

He pauses, and says; "Not that I would. I won't, until you say it's okay."

Hannibal sighs. He, still, is reluctant to give Will so much information, but closure is a powerful thing. "Quid pro quo, I suppose," he murmurs, and he stands – for he must give Will his answer. To leave him in limbo like this would be cruel.

He goes back into his office, and grabs a sheet from his notebook, tearing it out, and writes upon it; "Give me time to read your file. Then you may read mine. If you still want to go, and you want me with you, we will go."

He purses his lips, and holds the sheet out in front of him, and hears Will laugh, loudly.

"You know, for a brilliant man you're quite stupid," Hannibal hears him say, and he cocks his head to one side, smiling. "I'm not going anywhere without you, Hannibal, you must know that by now."

The sentiment, the warmth behind it, strikes him fiercely. He shivers, pressing his lips together, and turns the page over, writing; "I know, darling. But it's nice to hear you say it."

Will laughs again, loud enough for him to hear. "Alright. I'll leave you alone to read." There is a pause, lingering and soft with longing. Then, Will sighs, and Hannibal goes to the window, watching him put his notebook away and sit, running his hands through his hair. He rises, and looks towards Hannibal's house, eyes lifting and raking across the space like he might be able to see it. Hannibal wishes that he could, if only to know it's there.

"I'll see you soon, darling," Hannibal whispers, and though he knows Will cannot hear him, he sees Will roll his shoulders and sucks in a breath, and pretends that he did hear. That he can.

Perhaps, soon, he will. And when that happens, Hannibal will not stop touching him for a single moment.

But there is work to do. Will gave him a tremendous gift, and Hannibal will not see it go to waste. So he sets the paper and pen down, and eyes the stack of papers he had been reading. Turns away from them, and looks at the dates on each box until he finds the one he wants.

It is the night everything went to utterly wrong. The night Hannibal almost killed Will – but couldn't, couldn't quite. The night he shed Abigail's blood between them, and fled into the storm. He lifts that box, and sets it by his chair, and sits, ready to read.


	9. Chapter 9

_He would have gone with you._

_He would have gone with both of you_.

Hannibal has lost count of the hours he's spent pouring over Will's file. But this, oh God, this night – the night that had driven them so savagely apart, with Hannibal's knife in Will's stomach and Abigail's blood on his hands. His fingers are shaking and might never calm, his eyes brimming with tears he refuses to shed, for if he begins, he doesn't believe he could stop. His heart races rapid-fire in his chest, trying to fly out of his ribs, he thinks, and straight into Will's hands.

He had been so _blind_.

"You were supposed to leave."

"We couldn't leave without you."

But Will would have gone with them. He saw Abigail, and knew Hannibal hadn't killed her, and he made his decision then – then, of course he did. The betrayal that spurned him on, the anger he'd clung to, it couldn't have possibly melted away in an instant, but Hannibal had been so clouded by heartbreak and betrayal of his own, so angry, so _fiercely_ angry. Will had leaned into him, trusting, wide-eyed. Soaked with rain and smelling of Alana's perfume, of sweat, of – dare he call that hope?

Will still had his gun, that night. He hadn't reached for it – he wouldn't have hurt Hannibal. Wouldn't have hurt Abigail. _He would have gone with you._

Hannibal stands, shaking and clawed-open. God, he had been so blind, so weakened in his anger. And yet Will, still, had followed him. Had chased him across the sea, and he searches blindly for another file, anything, anything to calm his thoughts – searches for something mundane, like a trip to the grocery store or one of his lectures, something routine to distract himself.

He sees Jack's name, and pauses, and opens the file.

"I didn't make the decision until I heard his voice."

Hannibal's body feels weak all over, and he collapses back into his chair.

"You told him we knew."

"I told him to leave because I wanted him to run."

"Because...because he was my friend."

"And because I wanted to run away with him."

Hannibal closes the file with a harsh snap, squeezes his eyes shut and leans against the armrest of the chair, setting his knuckles to his teeth, and takes in a hard, shuddering breath. Oh, _Will_ , how is it possible that even after death he can destroy Hannibal all over again?

He searches, and searches further. Finds wine and drinks it gluttonously. Almost breaks the glass when he reads about the dragonfly made from one of the men who had hurt Mischa. What he would have given to see Will in that place, fierce and fine and savagely cruel, meticulous with his plans.

None of Will's actions have points totals. Whether that is because there is no translation, or because Will's status as a True Zero means that it's all wiped clean, Hannibal doesn't know. But he doesn't much care – he reads like the words are food for a starving man, devours file after file, page after page, until without his consent, tears start to fall, and he can no longer see clearly.

He has not felt this wretched with emotions since – well, since Will. It's always Will that makes him feel this way. Before him, it was Mischa; the only two people Hannibal has ever loved this much. And Will's love is a fierce thing, clawing at his insides and rending him in two. Perhaps it was truly his body, and not that of Anthony Dimmond, that was on display in the Palermo when he left his broken heart.

So much would have been different, if he'd known this. If he'd _known_ how Will felt.

He finds, after another long while of searching, their communion before that dreadful night. "We could leave tonight," he had said, and wished that Will would reach for him, would take his hand and press his face against it, would smile and blush and give him some shred of mercy. But Will is, by nature, merciless, as unforgiving and relentless as a summer storm. Clouds gathering, lighting brimming between them, waiting to strike the heaving ground of Hannibal's soul.

"Neither of us ideal."

 _Liar_ , the page tells him. Will would have gone with him. Will would have _gone with him_ , if only Hannibal had simply confessed. If he had asked, if he had taken Will to Abigail and let them embrace, and let them weep, and told him everything. So much, so much could have been different, so much could have been better, and they never would have come to this place – or they would have, years later, when time and love had tempered them both.

Perhaps long enough to send them to someplace quiet, and peaceful, for good, when the time did come.

Hannibal's hands tremble so fiercely, the pages topple and spill from his hands, scattering about the floor. Like the notes of his patients when he tossed them to Will. Like so much bloodshed and the open entrails of their secrets and lies, their wounds dealt to each other like battling lions fighting for the same carcass.

But they could have shared that meal, shared that territory. If only he'd _known_.

He cannot stand, can hardly breathe, so thoroughly shredded to the core by this new knowledge, this proof of Will's devotion and love for him. It is a savage thing, snarling and wild and golden-eyed, but it has always been at his side, always wanted to be close to him in whatever way Hannibal would let it. He aches, aches fiercely, to run to Will; wishes for nothing more than to embrace him, to touch him, if only for a moment.

He wants to get on the train. Wants to go wherever Will goes, damn the consequences.

Another bottle of wine finds its way into his hands, and he doesn't even bother pouring it into a glass. He has never been so shaken that he drinks straight from the bottle, but he does now, not even taking time to savor the full taste of the wine, the sweet flavor clinging after. It means nothing to him, for it is not Will. The warmth of the fire doesn't touch him, for it is not Will.

None of this _matters_ , without the man who made it happen.

"Oh Will," he breathes, and runs a hand over his face. "What have you done to me, darling?"

 

 

Will aches, his fingers clenched tight around his notebook as he watches Hannibal pace, obviously in distress as he reads Will's file. Will doesn't know what part he's reading about – perhaps his marriage, or Alana's kiss, or the conversation he shared with Jack about fishing and lures. Maybe his time with Chiyoh on the train, or his talks with Bedelia, flinging barbs at her because he had been so angry – but no, now he knows enough to call it jealousy. Will has never considered himself a possessive person, but Hannibal, oh, Hannibal makes him spit fire.

But that fire is dulled, now, at the sight of Hannibal's tears. He hasn't seen the man cry since the night he gutted Will, and Will presses a hand to his stomach, where there is no longer a scar, because the afterlife heals all physical wounds. He wonders, if he were to go to the kitchen and take a knife in hand, and press it to his stomach, and cut deep, if it would even harm him.

If it would feel as… _right_ , if it wasn't Hannibal's hand doing it.

He wishes he could _talk_ to Hannibal; he would give anything to know what he was thinking, what he was reading, but he promised Hannibal he would leave him alone, and let him read, and absorb. If he still wants to go with Will, they will go, and leave this cursed place behind. Fuck the Judge, fuck the Good Place and Bad Place and all places in between. Nothing is good, or bad, or anything, unless Hannibal is with him.

Tears burn the backs of his eyes as he watches Hannibal, and he shudders, closing the notebook and shoving it away, elbows on the table, hair in his hands. There are files piling up beside him, on top of the open blueprint, the Verdict box gleaming dully at his elbow. He doesn't care about any of it – he would gladly take the damn thing and throw it in the lake if he didn't suspect it would simply reappear at the table by the time he returned.

He pushes himself to his feet, his thoughts too chaotic to let him rest. When he felt this way when he was alive, he would go to the river and fish for hours, losing himself in the quiet of the stream and the tug of the lure bobbing in the water. But there is no stream here – there is nothing; no grand foyers or gentle rivers, nothing that makes it _theirs_.

He is too restless to remain in the house, and so he leaves it, notebook and Hannibal's file and his messenger bag abandoned.

"Janet," he says, and she appears with a soft noise. "Lock the door behind me."

She nods, and disappears again, and Will steps out onto the street. The sun shines brightly, as it always has, not a cloud in sight. He glares up at the sun, shielding his eyes with his hand, and then gazes down at the bright yellow and blue umbrellas. Looks at the pretty flowers, the tall trees – beyond the street, the lake and the mountains and the gazebo, and the single empty void where Hannibal resides.

His mouth twists in a snarl. This place is not _theirs._

Janet's warning about altering the community pings in his head like an annoying fly, and he brushes it off. Flexes his fingers, exerts his will.

The frozen yoghurt shop becomes the FBI lecture hall.

The pizzeria becomes the Hobbs cabin.

The houses beside the lake all disappear, and in their place, thrusting up from the grasses, Hannibal's cliffside cabin appears.

Will's lips curl in a sharp, savage smile. He looks to his side, sees another cluster of residential homes. Curls his fingers, and they crumble to dust. In their place, thick forests grow, and a stream gushes from between them, rolling down the hill to join with the lake. Within it, fish glimmer and shine, brought to life by Will's design.

He laughs, borderline hysterical, grim humor bubbling up and spilling from his mouth as Haima and Stephanie and Lucas appear, staring around them in confusion. Near them, the few residents Will has not yet sorted, and they all look up, staring at him in a mix of horror and fear, as he tears a thick cliff through the street, separating him from them. It spreads from the new forest to the other side of the hill, and he lifts the hill up, forcibly pushing his house higher and higher, away from them, until the fall would surely kill him.

Janet appears at his side, and holds her hands out. "Will, you must stop!" she says, something like panic in her voice. "You're changing too much!"

"I don't _care_ ," Will snaps, and whirls on her. "I don't forking care."

"Will, I'm serious, what you've done could seriously compromise the foundation of the neighborhood, and -."

Will grabs her wrists, and she falls silent.

"I. Don't. Care," he says. "Either bring the Judge to me, or I'll wipe this whole forking place out of existence."

"Will, that's not how it works."

"Then I guess we'll just have to see what happens," Will says with a smile, and lets her go. She presses her lips together, gazing with a worried frown and low-drawn brows down the side of the cliff, to where the rest of the community remains. "Put it all back if you have to. I'm making a point."

After all, Will's changes were not quiet – he knows Hannibal can sense them. Hopes he's outside, hopes he can see. But of course he's watching – Will knows he is. He can feel it, somehow, the same warm way he'd felt Hannibal's presence in the Palermo, touching him like a ghost. Wonders, if maybe he had been there, in the same way he's here – just a phantom, always nearby, but never touching.

"Will," Janet warns, as the cliff trembles, and grinds to a halt. Will lets his hands drop, panting from exertion – not the physical kind, but mentally he feels suddenly so tired. Maybe there's a kill switch in his brain that stops him from doing shit like this.

Will sighs, and runs his hands through his hair, and turns away.

He goes back into his house, and gathers the notebook and file. "Janet," he says, and opens the notebook as she appears with a soft 'Bing'.

He trails off, his eyes widening. On Hannibal's desk is another note; Hannibal standing behind it.

"Read my file," the note says. "Read everything. I'll be at the train station."

Will gasps, and he swallows. "Call a train, Janet," he says. "We're going to the Medium Place."

She nods, and disappears. With shaking hands, Will folds the notebook and puts it in the bag. He eyes Hannibal's folder, and takes it. His fingers crease the edges, and he presses his lips together.

Closes his eyes, and breathes out.

He opens it.

 

 

Will can't control how the information loads into his brain. It comes in flashes, points totals and sparks of decisions, of memories and emotions, flood him as he absorbs the file. He needs to only hold it, to see it, for a moment, and then he closes it, and puts it in his bag with the notebook. Clicks his tongue to summon Buster, and walks with him out of the house.

The neighborhood is back to the original plan – no cliff, no lecture hall, no cabin by the bay. No hidden place filled with antlers. But it doesn't matter. He walks, and pays no mind to the residents or Janet counterparts as they call for him – some out of anger, some in the generic greeting Janet counterparts have, as if they have no memory of his violent designs.

He ignores them all. None of them matter.

He walks to the train station with a steady gait, his mind buzzing. Sees, in his head, Hannibal. Hannibal, Hannibal, Hannibal. Killing Cassie Boyle. Killing in Italy. Killing in Lithuania, and Russia, and France. Ripping, tearing, creating beauty.

Sees his lies. Sees him with his hands on Will's sweaty face, mid-seizure. Sees him feeding Will Abigail's ear. Sees him teaching her how to play piano.

Sees positive and negative numbers that no longer have any meaning for Will.

Sees him fucking Alana, so tenderly Will might call it 'making love'.

Sees him washing Bedelia's hair. Snapping a man's neck and making him into a broken heart; the same man who'd tried to manipulate and twist him. Feels, with a smile, Hannibal's outrage that anyone would dare do to him what Will had done so flawlessly.

Beyond that, every interaction with Will; red, warm, pulsing with some purring intrigue, curiosity turning to affection turning to fierce, possessive love. Twisting, manipulating, _wind him up and watch him go_. Sees Hannibal's pride, when Will showed him just what that means.

Sees it all. Knows it all. Knows through Hannibal's tongue what his sister tasted like. Knows from Hannibal's touch how it felt to cup Will's face and how hot his blood had been on Hannibal's hand. Knows the scent of encephalitis, a fevered sweetness that reminds Will of roasting meat on a spit.

He walks to the train station, and does not falter for a single moment.

There is a train there, and Janet is at the helm, wearing a conductor's cap. She gives him a bright smile as he steps aboard it.

Will doesn't dare look, but look he must. It has always been his burden, to see.

And yet.

He closes his eyes, hears Buster snuffling curiously around his feet, sniffing out the new scents on the train.

He exhales. "Is he here?"

The answer, when it comes, is in a voice so soft and tender and achingly familiar Will feels he might collapse where he stands.

"Hello, Will."

He opens his eyes, turns his head as the train starts to move, and before him appears a shade. He is pale, translucent, but as the train gathers speed, and the neighborhood falls away, he grows edges. Grows shades of peach and tan and grey, solidifying further into black for his suit, brown for his eyes, soft pink for his mouth.

Another flash; Will behind bars, knowing, _knowing_ , glaring at Hannibal with righteous fury. Feels Hannibal's warmth, his pride, his delight. _There you are, darling, what will you do now?_

Sees Hannibal, behind the glass wall, purring the same. _What a cunning boy you are_.

He does not smile, but the noise he makes is nothing short of rapturous. He's here, he's _here_ , Will can see him. Can hear him. God, how long has it been? How long has it been, and how long has it felt like? A lifetime, an age.

He swallows, and whispers, "Hello, Doctor Lecter."

And, just like he did both those times, and just like he always has when Will proves himself a worthy, fierce, utterly unpredictable thing, Hannibal smiles.


	10. Chapter 10

Truthfully, Will isn't sure he knows what he was going to do when he could finally see and hear Hannibal again. Hasn't that always been his game? _Unpredictable_ , by his very nature, to the last. And now he doesn't know what to do, again – feels like he can simply stand and stare, as the neighborhood falls away and the sight of it through the windows of the train are replaced with flat desert.

Hannibal is standing in the aisle, now, between the rows of bench seats as the train rattles and cracks its way towards the Medium Place. Will can't help liken this to how Hannibal had looked whenever he opened his office door, his smile warm and eyes bright with fondness, even when Will was losing his mind.

Will feels like he's losing his mind. Thinks, hysterical and shrill inside his skull, that this can't possibly be real. He must be dreaming, and his mind is throwing this impossible, perfect image at him because he aches, _God_ does he ache.

His hands shake, his fingers curl. He swallows, wets his lips, and Hannibal's eyes drop to his mouth.

The fondness fades from his expression, replaced with something ravenous, starving. Will knows that look, too – feels it echoed, a snarl behind his own face, a creature that knows its kind, and wants to run to him.

Hannibal's shoulders tense, roll up. He looks like he's vibrating where he stands, his edges forming and solidifying the farther they get from that stupid neighborhood with its sub-par food and too-bright umbrellas and perma-sun.

Will swallows again, and yet his mouth, his throat, is so dry when he whispers; "Should I be worried?"

Hannibal looks at him. Tilts his head.

"You read my file."

Hannibal nods. He takes a step forward. "And you read mine," he replies.

Will nods, and doesn't step back. No more catch and release, no more chases, no more playing at retreat. If Hannibal read his file, that means he knows. That means Will has no more secrets to keep, even if he wanted to. All the lies, the betrayal from both of them, his actions and reactions, the honey-trap half-truths he fed to Jack and Hannibal and Alana in turn; the way he felt when he saw Hannibal in that fucking _cage_ , the sharp sting of rejection; how Will had said 'I don't want to think about you anymore' and known as soon as he said it that he was a Goddamn liar.

Always lying. But he can't lie about any of that. Not anymore.

Hannibal presses his lips together. "You came anyway."

"So did you," Will murmurs.

Hannibal takes another step forward. They're close enough to reach out and touch, and Will does, because he can't fight the urge to do it. His hand shakes when he lifts it, but when Hannibal mirrors him, and slides their fingers together, their palms knocking, meat of thumb pressing to meat of thumb, knuckles spreading to let them feel each other's crevices, Will's trembling stops.

Hannibal is warm, and solid to the touch, and he gasps, and that ache blossoms like new flowers in spring, thirsty for rain and sunlight. He curls his fingers until his knuckles turn white between Hannibal's, and his eyes burn.

Hannibal breathes out heavily, like the touch alone is enough to rob him of air. His eyes shine, whiskey and blood and in the center, black. "It seems like an eternity since I touched you last," he whispers, and Will knows in that moment that Hannibal has tried – what a cruel torment it must have been for someone like him, not to be seen, not to be heard or felt. To exist in total freedom and, at the same time, in total obscurity.

Will doesn't know what he's going to do; his mind is at a standstill, locked in static and weighed down like a body wrapped in rocks, flooding his lungs, drowning him. In the back of his skull sits the heaviest weight and the press of it feels like Hannibal's hand.

He can't think, can't actively decide, so he allows himself to surrender to instinct, and instinct tells him to close the remaining distance. To let their hands drop, to shiver and pant as Hannibal's other hand threads into his hair, slides down and rests solid and warm on the back of his neck. So close, they're standing so close, and Hannibal is the realest thing about this place.

Will's free hand curls, presses a closed fist against Hannibal's collarbone, nails scratching against the material of his suit jacket. His fingers slide up to Hannibal's wrist, and he feels, below the delicate skin, where the scar would be if it was still there, Hannibal's thundering pulse.

Hannibal shivers, brings their hands in, and lets them crush between their chests, low on Will's sternum. Just above where the scar on his stomach would be, if they were both still alive. Again, Will wonders if he can get that back – he doesn't feel like himself without Hannibal's marks on him, without the bullet wounds and the line from the saw and that huge, knotted wound in his gut.

He is overwhelmed, by a simple touch, and when Hannibal gently, so gently, touches their foreheads together, Will's knees shake and lock so he doesn't fall. Hannibal's hand tightens on his neck, prepared to steady him and keep him upright, and Will closes his eyes. Can feel Hannibal's exhale on his face, taste wine and salt.

He's been crying. Will knew this; he saw it.

Hannibal, as always, is the one to break the silence; "I knew you would find a way to see me."

And Will breaks. His shoulders tremble in a broken half-sob, his lip pulls back so he can suck a breath in through his teeth, and the most stubborn of his tears leak from beneath his lids, weighted not with grief, but utter relief, as Hannibal's thumb brushes over the nape of his neck.

"It's my job," he whispers, and that's a placid, tepid thing to say. But he doesn't know what else to say, so again, instinct takes over; "I wasn't going to let anything keep you from me."

Though his eyes are closed, Will knows Hannibal is smiling. Feels his joy like one might hear the flutter of a hummingbird's wings, thrumming in time with his pulse. He tilts his head, nose brushing Hannibal's, and his fist uncurls, slides up, to cup Hannibal's jaw. So _warm_ , so incredibly solid unlike anything else in that place.

"I know everything," he breathes, and hears Hannibal give a soft sound in answer. He opens his eyes, lifts them, their foreheads separating so he can see. "It doesn't change how I…feel." He winces, drops his gaze. Could he even name, in earnest, what Hannibal makes him feel?

Alive. The answer is simply this: Hannibal makes him feel alive. Even when they both died falling from the cliffs.

Will's stomach clenches and his chest wracks in another harsh sob. He shakes his head, clings to Hannibal's cheek and hand, and says, "If I'd known, I swear…. If I'd _fucking_ known -."

He doesn't even have the chance to be pleased that he can swear again, because Hannibal's hand slides back into his hair, curls in it gently, and Hannibal releases his hand and cups Will's tear-stained cheek. Will trembles, going silent, and wonders if he'll get his wish – if Hannibal might have a weapon, and use it, and remind Will what it's like to have someone like him buried in his stomach.

He does get his wish, but not by knife, not by claws. Hannibal, instead, closes the final shred of distance, tilts Will's head up, and kisses him. It is not gentle, but oh, it is tender. Even with teeth, even with Hannibal's grip on him turning tight and wanting, Will cannot possibly be kissed like that and think there's any emotion there except joy, relief – love.

Hannibal's teeth touch his lower lip, his head tilts and Will's lips part, letting in his tongue. He gasps, grips Hannibal's jacket frantically, tugs him closer as Hannibal corrals and cradles him, kisses and floods his mouth like the heat of capsaicin – Will's tongue burns, his lips ache with the promise of bruising if he keeps getting kissed like that, and he wants it so desperately he doesn't want to breathe; would rather die again, just like this, with Hannibal's mouth on his and Hannibal in his arms, where he belongs.

"Will," Hannibal growls, and if he intended to say anything more, it is lost when Will gasps, slides his hands to Hannibal's back, and kisses him again. He tries to find the raised edges of the brand he only knows Hannibal got from his file, but there is nothing there. Just warmth, smoothness, sleekness, strength. Hannibal brushes a hand along Will's shoulder, like he's looking for the same. But neither of them will find anything – they are whole, and they are human, with all the damning nature that comes with it.

"I'm not letting her take you from me," Will promises, and Hannibal's eyes flash, low-lidded and all-black now. His mouth, red, swollen and wet from Will's kisses. Will can't stop; he won't. This man is his and Will knows, more intimately than anyone ever will, what exactly that means. And he wants it.

He stared into the abyss, and the abyss reached for him, and when Will fell, he fell into love. Fierce, possessive, all-consuming as fire; it is love, it is need, and it's his for the taking. Nothing could ever make him doubt it.

"Will," Hannibal says, rough and growling. He sighs, and now his hands are shaking, as he pets through Will's hair and cradles his neck, his jaw, with both hands – tender as always, soft as sin. "From the moment you chose me, I was yours."

Will knows this, too – knows the moment it happened, when curiosity turned to fondness, turned to affection, attraction, whatever sharp-clawed and fanged version of love Hannibal is capable of, with him. He swallows. "That works both ways."

Hannibal blinks at him, rapid-fire, and his smile is so wide and brilliantly happy that Will, for a moment, cannot breathe.

"If there was any doubt, I hope it is gone forever between us."

Will nods, and smiles back. He slides his hands to Hannibal's flanks, settles warm and wide there, his skin too-warm and buzzing. He wants to be kissed again. Needs to calm his shaking hands. Settles, instead, for resting his forehead on Hannibal's shoulder, and shivers when Hannibal embraces him and kisses his hair.

"Gentlemen!" Janet calls, as the train starts to slow. She grins at them when Will turns, and salutes. "We're here!"

 

 

The Medium Place is, essentially, a barren desert. It stretches out in all directions, broken only by the tracks of the train leading in and out. Janet and Buster come out with them, and though the sun is bright and the dry, cracked sand burns with a haze suggesting heat, it's not terribly uncomfortable. A little on the balmy side, but bearable.

Hannibal takes Will's hand, their fingers curling together effortlessly, and Will smiles, warmed to the bone at the easy, affectionate gesture. He could get used to that.

For lack of any other obvious direction, they walk straight, perpendicular from the train. Janet walks with them, her hands folded behind her back and that same bright smile on her face.

Will eyes her. "You can't disappear, can you?"

She shakes her head. "I have no powers in the Medium Place," she tells them. "Neither do you."

Will nods. Honestly he's grateful for that – the files he sorted were more than enough to fill his head, and Hannibal's, being the last he read, seems like a good bookend for that. He likes the pressure of Hannibal's thoughts and memories inside his skull; it covers him like a weighted blanket, soothes the antsy creature of doubt and anxiety in his head.

After a moment, Janet sighs, though she is still smiling. "I've never walked for so long before! This is interesting."

Will laughs, and Hannibal is smiling, in too good a humor to hide it – he feels like a purring cat beside Will, alight with joy and brilliantly shining in the sun. Will could look at him forever, if he kept smiling like that.

"What will we find, here?" Hannibal asks.

"There is a single resident in the Medium Place – a woman named Mindy St. Claire," Janet informs them. "It is also the site of the current experiment, so there has been a community built by another Janet and the architect Michael. The location is in Mindy St. Claire's backyard."

Will's brows lift, remembering what Janet has told them; "So Michael would be able to call the Judge. He's representation, right?"

"That is correct!" Janet says brightly. "Though the Judge has ordered a radio silence for all Good Place and Bad Place representatives during the experiment – he would be able to get a message to her, or get to her chambers if necessary."

Will hums, and meets Hannibal's eyes. "If I were the Judge," he says quietly, leaning in so only Hannibal can hear, though he's not sure if Janet has super-hearing or not, "and my Jury went missing, this is the first place I'd look."

Hannibal smiles at him, and squeezes Will's hand.

"Then, darling," he purrs, "let's ensure that we are easily found."

Will blinks at him, shivering inwardly, and wonders how long Hannibal has been calling him 'darling' for – the way he says it doesn't sound like the first time. It warms him; he likes it, he likes the look on Hannibal's face when he says it.

He smiles.

"It is possible to get into this community from the outside?"

"I'm not sure – no one has tried," Janet replies. "Most communities in the Good Place are built so that residents are perfectly content and have no desire to leave, so I don't think there would be anything as strict as borders. We are in the Medium Place, after all, and everyone knows what's going on here."

Hannibal nods, beside Will. "Are we journeying that way now?"

"To Mindy St. Claire's house, yes."

Will presses his lips together. He sees Hannibal's plan like it's his own, stretching between them in that mutual place of understanding, that mind palace Will only dreamed of when he was alive; going to that house, making themselves comfortable. Assessing the community for weaknesses, for ways to sneak in. Creating a spectacle that would make God Himself tremble, if such a thing like God runs this place.

He squeezes Hannibal's hand. "We mustn't do anything rash," he warns. Their points might still count against them, after all, and where Hannibal goes, Will means to follow.

Hannibal smiles at him. "Of course not," he purrs, and lifts their hands, kissing Will's knuckles. His smile turns sharp at the edges, showing his teeth. "We're merely ambassadors, seeking help and knowledge from seasoned veterans of this afterlife structure. And," he adds with a meaningful look, and a sigh, "taking advantage of some well-deserved time away from work."

Will huffs a laugh, and rolls his eyes.

"Mindy St. Claire has proven welcoming to guests in the past, for the most part," Janet supplies helpfully.

"Excellent," Hannibal says. "I'm excited to meet her."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So although I will introduce Mindy St. Claire, and they will have some interactions with Michael, don't worry if you haven't seen The Good Place! I will keep it very spoiler-free in regards to Hannigram's interactions with them, and you won't miss or be spoiled by anything beyond what's already in the premise.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed my mind vis a vis plot and who's involved. I want to streamline this story and get us moving towards the end :D

They never make it to Mindy St. Claire's house. It could have been hours or days later, Will isn't sure, since the sun doesn't seem to move and the temperature never changes from that slightly too-warm, muggy feeling, but at some point they crest the rise of a small, sandy dune. Their shadows stretch out long before them, painting the ground black, and even Buster goes still at the sight below them.

"We must have gone around the back," Will whispers.

Hannibal, beside him, nods. In front of them stretches out a huge swath of green, as neatly-trimmed and perfectly mowed as a golf course, and there is, suddenly swimming into focus, a mountain beyond the greenery. A lake, with a gazebo and large palm trees. The community sits in a valley, and Will can see Lego-piece-sized people milling around. Between the streams of them, bright umbrellas and stone buildings.

"It looks like ours," Hannibal murmurs.

"Your community was designed after the first," Janet supplies helpfully, smiling at them. "This one was, as well, though there have been a few alterations made to accommodate for the experiment."

The experiment. Right. "What exactly is the reason for the experiment?" he asks her. One of his hands is still wrapped in Hannibal's, and he shivers, warm and content, when Hannibal's thumb brushes along the backs of his knuckles.

"Well, the original purpose of the first community was to collect four humans, who were chosen specifically to torture each other psychologically. Michael, the architect who spearheaded the project, sought to move away from the traditional penis flatteners and bees with teeth."

Will arches a brow, and beside him, Hannibal gives a quiet snort of amusement.

"However, the humans would, every time, seek to better themselves and each other. A lot happened between then and now, but it was posited by Michael to the Judge that the reason humans gain so many bad points on Earth is because life on Earth is simply too complicated – that a genuinely good act, or a well-meant one, can still have a negative total because of unforeseen and uncalculated repercussions."

Will frowns, tilting his head.

"For instance, ordering flowers online for someone. Those flowers must be shipped, creating a carbon footprint. The phone or computer used to order them earned a profit for a corrupt CEO. The flowers themselves might have been grown using something other than fair trade, it's a whole thing," Janet says with a small shrug.

"So, the experiment?" Hannibal prompts.

"Well, in the Good Place, and the Bad Place, and the Medium Place, Earth-related consequences don't factor in," Janet says, smiling brightly. "Therefore, the humans must be shown to be genuinely good, and they will be measured on their actions just by the positive and negative points without unknown consequences messing up the scores."

"How the Hell do you even process that kind of thing?" Will asks, shaking his head. "Everything is connected, _everything_. How can you possibly resolve the points system and know what's an unknown consequence, and what isn't?"

Janet blinks at him. "Ignorance and disregard are different things, Will," she says.

Will meets her eyes, because it sounds like she's saying something different than what she means. Hannibal squeezes his hand, and Will sighs, looking down to the community again.

"We have to find Michael," he murmurs.

Hannibal nods, beside him. Buster barks, stubby tail wagging wildly, trotting around their feet. "Are all the residents going to be humans who have died?" he asks Janet.

Janet shakes her head. "Most of them are Janet counterparts, like those in your community, created by another Janet. There are currently eight humans in total – the original four, and four additional ones on whom the experiment evaluation is being run. And Michael, of course."

Hannibal nods again. He looks to Will. Will can feel his eyes on the side of his face, and he knows Hannibal is expecting him to lead them onwards. But Will can only stand, and stare.

He doesn't want to go down there.

If they end up messing with the experiment, they could skew the results, which means not only screwing with all of humanity, but also Hannibal's points. Messing with this experiment could mean the Judge sends him to the worst place imaginable. Will doesn't much care for the rest of humanity, he's long-since passed that, but people are dying every second, piling up without him as the Jury to sort and evaluate them, and who knows how long they'll be forced into limbo to wait for this whole thing to smooth itself out.

And it's not fair – yes, humanity is flawed, and if his relationship with Hannibal proves anything, it's that every action has so many consequences and reactions, it's impossible to live a truly good life without screwing something up. But people should have a chance to be _good_. They should have a chance to go somewhere good.

He swallows harshly, and his fingers flex between Hannibal's. "I…"

"Janet, could you give us a moment alone?"

"Of course!" she says. She can't disappear into whatever void she goes into when not appearing, so she simply covers her ears. Will rolls his eyes, and lets Hannibal lead him a few steps away, in relative solitude. He cups Will's chin and makes their eyes meet.

"What are you thinking, darling?" he murmurs.

Will swallows, and wraps his fingers around Hannibal's wrist. He shakes his head, wants to lower his eyes, but refuses to – in the fake sunlight, Hannibal's eyes are a deep, rich golden-brown, flecks of red in them that make Will think of fresh meat.

"We don't know why I'm a zero," he says. "And I don't know if, after everything, your points are going to change enough for it to matter, but I don't want to do anything…rash." He winces at the word. "Anything that would make it worse for you."

Hannibal presses his lips together, and smiles, the expression sad. "Will, as much as I appreciate the sentiment, let us not forget the reality of the situation – if we do not go, the only option is to wait until the Judge comes to us." Will sighs, nodding. "By the most liberal of estimates, I have performed many 'evil' deeds in my life – I have killed, for revenge, for pleasure, for the sake of it. Even doing bad things to bad people doesn't erase the original sin."

"I killed people too," Will replies sharply, the same way he told the Judge that same fact.

Hannibal tilts his head, and lifts his shoulders in a shrug. "I suppose, even in the unknown laws of this great universe, you still remain entirely unpredictable, and impossible to evaluate."

Will huffs, but manages a smile. "I think it should count for something," he murmurs. Hannibal smiles at him, and tilts his chin up further, lets their mouths meet in a sweet, chaste kiss. Will sighs into it, warmed to the bone under Hannibal's touch, and when they pull apart he shakes his head again and rests his forehead on Hannibal's shoulder.

"I just want to be somewhere quiet," he says, and his voice is petulant even to his own ears. "Just…far away from everything else. I don't want to deal with all this shit."

Hannibal hums, sliding a hand into Will's hair, embracing him for a moment. "Perhaps there is a way," he suggests, and Will frowns, as Hannibal pulls back, takes his hand, and walks them back over to Janet. "Janet," he calls, and taps on her shoulder. She lowers her hands and grins at them. "Thank you for giving us some privacy."

"Of course!"

"If we were to enter the community, would you get your abilities back?"

Janet blinks at them, head tilted. "I believe so," she says. "But Will would not, and you would not become invisible again since those were specifically-coded parameters in your own community. Why do you ask?"

"Would it be possible for you to make a house for us, far away from the main part of the community, where we would be able to rest and stay until we were ready to contact Michael?"

Will blinks at Hannibal, surprised.

"I think so!" Janet says. "But any adjustments made to the community would be registered with that Janet. She will likely come investigate."

Hannibal smiles. "I'm sure once we explain the situation, she will see our reasoning." He looks to Will, and squeezes his hand. "What do you say, darling?"

Will clears his throat, swallows, and runs a hand through his hair. "Lead the way."

 

 

They prowl into the community and meet no resistance. As soon as they step into the first patch of lawn, Janet disappears with a 'Bing', and Hannibal smiles when she reappears with another sound. "This way," he murmurs, and leads them to the very edge of the community, where the grass melts into dry, cracking sand again. "Here. If you don't mind, Janet."

"What would you like it to look like?" she asks.

Before Hannibal can reply, Will says, "Make it how I made my house in our community." Hannibal blinks at him, but Janet nods, and in front of their eyes, a building snaps into existence that looks like the outside of his Baltimore home. They go inside, and enter into the dining room immediately.

Will smiles, rolling his shoulders. There is the door to the kitchen, and Buster's dog bed which he immediately goes to and plops himself down on, and it looks exactly as Will created it in their community. There are no additional doorways, no stairs leading up – they don't need to sleep, or do anything else here, after all.

Janet pauses. "The other Janet knows we're here," she says, and as soon as she speaks, another woman who looks just like her 'Bing's into the room. She is the spitting image of their Janet, but is wearing a light blue dress that goes to her knees, long-sleeved, and black heels, and has her hair tied up into a ponytail.

She is much more expressive than their Janet, for when she looks at them, she gasps in shock, and then frowns. "Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter," she says. "You shouldn't be here. How did you get here?"

"We walked!" their Janet says brightly.

The other Janet blinks between the three of them, and then to Buster. She presses her lips together, a deep frown on her face. "This isn't right," she says. "You must leave immediately. Any changes to the community could corrupt the experiment."

"Janet, please," Hannibal says, raising his free hand in a placative motion. "If you know who we are, you know why we're here."

She frowns at them. "I…" She shakes her head, ponytail snapping wildly around her face. "You can't stay here. The Judge will come looking for you, and I have to tell Michael."

"Good," Hannibal says with a warm smile. "Please, do tell him we're here. Tell him that we don't mean to disrupt the experiment – we will wait here patiently for the Judge to arrive."

Her frown deepens. "You want the Judge to come."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because we need to speak to her. This seemed like the most prudent course of action, to get representation to do so."

Janet tilts her head, blows out a heavy breath, and folds her arms across her chest. "I will have to tell Michael you're here," she says warningly. "But…you promise not to interfere with the experiment?"

"I swear," Hannibal says, and Will nods, beside him. "We don't want to do anything to disrupt this community – simply remain here, until the Judge comes to visit us. When we are done speaking with her, we will leave."

She doesn't look convinced, and turns to her counterpart. "Keep an eye on them," she commands, and their Janet grins and nods, and then they both disappear with soft 'Bing's.

Will sighs, once they're gone. He seems jittery and on-edge, and Hannibal pulls him close, lets Will rest his forehead on Hannibal's shoulder, sighing again. "Whatever happens," Hannibal promises him, "we will deal with it together."

Will nods, and tilts his head, nosing at Hannibal's jaw. "I'm…" He pauses, and shivers, and his free hand settles on Hannibal's chest, over his heart. "Despite everything, I'm glad I'm here with you," he says. Hannibal knows that. _He would have gone with you_.

Throughout it all, Hannibal knows, now, that all Will craves is peace. Peace, with him, and some quiet.

Hannibal smiles, and kisses his cheek. "Come, darling," he murmurs, and leads Will towards the kitchen. "Since you have so generously provided our setting, I can only assume my usual wine stores are here as well. Let us toast the next stage of our journey, and wish for it to all work out cleanly for everyone involved."

"Hear, hear," Will murmurs. He sounds tired, but shines brightly enough as Hannibal takes a bottle of wine from the wine rack, opens it, and pours them each a large glass of red. They return to the dining room, and take their seats – Hannibal, at the head of the table, Will on his left.

As soon as they sit, the atmosphere changes. It seems as though, somehow, time has reversed as Hannibal so-often wished it had. This could have been them, in some sunny place in Cuba, or Mexico, or Italy, sharing wine and warmth and each other's company.

Will smiles at him, and clinks their glasses together. "To the future, Doctor Lecter," he purrs.

Hannibal responds in kind, and takes a drink. "To the future, dear Will, and all that comes with it."


	12. Chapter 12

"Oh this is bad. This is very, very bad."

Will isn't sure what he expected Michael to be like. From his understanding, Bad Place architects are essentially demons, tasked with the torture of human souls when they go to the Bad Place. He would expect someone like that to be, well, more like Hannibal – poised and charming and devious to the last.

Michael is not poised, not even a little. He keeps rubbing his mouth and putting his head in his hands, a trembling mess of anxious jitters. Beside him, his Janet looks similarly distressed, and keeps pressing her lips together, looking between Michael, and Hannibal and Will.

"This is _so bad_."

Hannibal shifts his weight, beside Will. "I understand our presence here is distressing -."

Michael laughs, hysterical and high. He drops his hands and looks between them. "How did you even…?" He shakes his head and looks at his Janet. "Humans are so _inconvenient_." She sighs through her nose – much more expressive than their Janet is. Will wonders how old she is, how long she's been around humans, to adopt their mannerisms like that. "Look, you guys can't stay here. Nothing can jeopardize this experiment, I can't -."

"We understand," Hannibal murmurs. "We simply want to speak to the Judge. Can you tell her we're here?"

Michael blinks at them. "You want to speak to the Judge," he repeats flatly. "Oh…. Okay. Yes. I can probably…" He pats down his jacket and looks at his Janet. "Janet, where's my -?"

She pulls her hands from behind her back, holding out a rotary phone. Michael takes it from her with a grateful smile. "Thank you, Janet," he says, and sets the phone down on the dining room table. Will shifts closer, as he takes the phone off the lever and raises it to his ear.

"Judge?" he says, after a moment of silence. "It's Michael, how you doin'?" His voice is strained, his smile tight as he watches Will and Hannibal like they're growling dogs just waiting to attack them. "Oh, oh the experiment is…. That's not why I'm calling. Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter are here."

Whatever she says makes Michael wince, and he pulls the phone from his ear, and sets it down. "She's on her way," he says brightly.

Will nods. "Thank you, Michael, we appreciate it."

"I'll have to ask you to stay here, until she arrives," Michael says earnestly. He folds his hands together like he's praying, fingertips touching his mouth. "Please. This experiment is very important, I can't have anything messing it up."

"Rest assured, Michael," Hannibal purrs, smiling, "we have no intention of interfering. Thank you for calling the Judge for us. We'll be on our way soon after, I imagine."

"Okay, good," Michael says with a nod. "Janet tells me you brought your Janet too. If you guys need anything, please ask her. Otherwise…hello and goodbye, I guess."

Will smiles at him. Now that he knows the Judge is on her way, he's all the more antsy for him and Hannibal to be alone. God only knows what's going to happen now, and just like the night on the cliffs, he simply wants to be around Hannibal before the inevitable drama unfolds.

Michael nods, like he senses it too. He claps his hands together. "Well! Have a nice afterlife," he says, and leaves. His Janet disappears a moment later.

Will sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. Hannibal catches his wrist, makes him lower it to the table, his thumb brushing gentle and warm along the backs of Will's knuckles. Will looks over to him, finds Hannibal's gaze on his hand. He sighs through his nose.

"I'm not afraid," Will murmurs, because it feels like he should say something.

Hannibal lifts his eyes, and smiles. "Neither am I," he replies. "Regardless of the circumstances, Will, being able to speak to you, and touch you freely – I don't think I have ever been so content."

"Really?" Will asks, brows rising. "There's nothing you would ask for, in this moment?"

Hannibal tilts his head. Something dark and considering flashes across his face, and he smiles. "Is there something you would like to ask for?" he says quietly.

"I don't know," Will replies, and it's an honest reply. He lowers his eyes to their hands, squeezes the curl of Hannibal's fingers, and feels a flutter in his heart when Hannibal does the same. "I know enough about myself to know it's difficult, for me, to only have half of something. I'm an all or nothing kind of guy."

"I'm aware," Hannibal says. Will flushes, and looks away. "I did not mean it as a negative, though, darling – you are a passionate creature, and gluttonous when it comes to the things you want. In life, repression was the only option, but here…"

"You think I'm repressed?"

"Terribly so," Hannibal says, and smiles. Will can't find it in himself to argue. In his silence, Hannibal sighs, and straightens in his seat. "I would like to ask you something, Will, before the fast-approaching consequences of our actions make it impossible."

Will nods, and meets his eyes.

"If we are, somehow, able to bargain for our shred of paradise, whatever form that takes…" Hannibal pauses, looks almost hesitant, as vulnerable as Will has ever seen him; "Would you be happy, with me? Truly happy."

Will blinks at him, and frowns. "You've read my file," he says, and Hannibal's lips press together. He nods. "Is there something you read there that would make you doubt it? Hannibal, one of the first things I asked the Judge about was you. As soon as we got to our community, the first thing I did was try and find you. I don't…" He shakes his head. "I thought you said you were beyond doubt."

"Being with me and being happy with me are not the same, Will – though it pleases me greatly to think they might be. I simply wanted to ask," Hannibal says. He seems deflated, somehow, like Will took all the air out of him.

Will hates that look.

He stands, chair skating back, and circles the corner of the table. He takes Hannibal's face in his hands and leans down, and kisses him. Kisses, like he wishes he had on the cliffs. Kisses like he wishes he could have, before Hannibal's knife found his gut. Hannibal stiffens, and melts to him like gold in fire, molten and trembling, and reaches for him, pulling him closer.

They don't need to breathe in this place, not really, and though Will's lungs burn with the phantom desire, he ignores them, and tilts his head, deepening the kiss when Hannibal parts his lips and allows him in. He clutches, nails in Hannibal's neck, along his scalp, shivers when Hannibal's hands flatten on his shoulders like he can only cling to Will.

There is so much he wants to say, but he doesn't need to – Hannibal has read all of it. He knows all of it. Still, words, saying a thing aloud; it's powerful. Will pulls back and makes sure Hannibal meets his eyes.

"I love you," he breathes, and Hannibal blinks at him, shell-shocked. "You are mine, and I am yours, and whatever that means – I'm done trying to hide it. Done pretending it's not there. We're the same, and that means everything to me."

Hannibal's smile is so wide, so brilliantly happy, it's like staring at the sun. Will forces himself to look, to bear it, as Hannibal slides a hand into his hair and brings him in for another kiss. It's a warm, gentle thing, no teeth this time, and yet when Will pulls back for air he doesn't need, his mouth feels tender.

"Stay with me," Will begs.

Hannibal smiles. "Where else would I go?"

Will wants to laugh. He wants to cry. He does neither – merely lets Hannibal embrace him and pull him close, and kisses him again.

 

 

The Judge walks in without announcement, her eyes bright with outrage and a sour expression on her face. "You two are real thorns in my paw, I'll tell you that," she complains, throwing her hands up dramatically. "I was right in the middle of a rewatch and I get the call from Michael."

She points at Will accusingly. "You broke our deal."

Will raises an eyebrow, and stands. "You lied to me," he replies sharply.

She raises both brows. "Technically, no, I didn't," she says with a huff, lifting her chin and putting her hands on her hips. "And you can get right down from your high horse, Will." Will rolls his eyes, shakes his head. "You both broke the rules."

"You wanted me to be impartial," Will snaps. "I'm not going to be impartial. Not without Hannibal. Taking him away from me wasn't in your right to do."

"I'm the _Judge_ ," she says. "My word _is the law_." She bobs her head on each word, swiveling it so her hair flies around her cheeks.

"And you made me the Jury," Will replies.

She glares at him, and folds her arms over her chest, looking to Hannibal, then back at Will. "Man, what I would give to find out why you're a zero in the first place," she says with a huff, blowing her bangs from her face. "What exactly was your plan, here?"

"We simply wished to speak with you," Hannibal replies coolly. "To discuss new terms."

Her brows shoot up again. "I'm sorry, what in the world gave you the impression that you have any bargaining power here?"

"I imagine a lot of it is ego," Hannibal says with a smile.

She blinks at him, and then doubles over in a guffawing laugh. "Hah!" She claps her hands together twice. "You're a charmer, aren't you?" Hannibal merely grins at her, and sips at his wine. She tosses her head and looks to Will again. "Alright, I'll play along because I'm bored and curious – what exactly did you want to talk about?"

Will gestures for her to sit. Hannibal gets up from the head seat, making room for her, and she sits. Will sits on her left, Hannibal on her right. Beneath the table, Hannibal's foot brushes along Will's, and he shivers.

She sits with her hands splayed wide on the table, perfectly straight-backed, and looks between them. Her head tilts when she sees Hannibal, and her eyes narrow. She looks back to Will. "You both seem different."

"I read Hannibal's file," Will murmurs. "And let him read mine."

She blinks. "Files aren't meant to be shared between non-architects and the Jury," she says flatly. Will raises a shoulder in a shrug, in answer.

"We'll get straight to the point," Hannibal says, and she looks to him. "Will and I believe that, truthfully, we are not going to fare well when sorted into another community, wherever that ends up being after my points are re-evaluated. I don't disagree with you when you made him Jury – Will is uniquely skilled at determining the qualities of men and women, and with his experience as a human, he is a vital asset."

Will presses his lips together, ducking his head at the indirect praise, the warmth in Hannibal's voice when he says it.

"We ask, simply, that we are allowed to be left alone. In a neutral place where we won't be bothered by anyone, like I believe you have done for Mindy St. Claire."

"She was a special case," the Judge says coldly. "I won't mince words with ya; you're not even close to the same shade of grey she is."

Hannibal nods, and gestures towards Will. "Let us not look at my actions, then, but the results of them. We can argue about it all day, but it's not unfair to say that Will's nature, who he is as a person, was largely shaped in the last years of his life by his relationship with me, and mine with his. And he killed me, ridding the world of a great evil, but also becoming a unique and vital asset to you, as the Judge and Jury." Hannibal's head tilts. "Will wouldn't have died like that, done half the things he did, without me as an influence. Regardless of unknown consequences, Will's presence here is undeniably positive, for you and for this system."

She frowns.

"Am I wrong?" Hannibal asks with a smile.

Her lips purse. "…No," she says slowly, and looks over at Will. "You're not wrong."

"The only reason I'm here is because of Hannibal," Will replies. "He's essential to me. I can't be who I am without him."

The Judge sighs, lifting her eyes as if praying for patience. "Nevertheless," she says, "that doesn't mean either of you get special treatment."

"Look," Will snaps. "The only way this is going to end, if you don't give us what we want, is us continuing to break the system. I don't care where you put Hannibal – if you want me to keep doing what I'm doing, you'll have to give me my powers back, and that means I'll find him. Wherever you put him, I'm going to find him."

 _I need him_ , he wants to say. But he doesn't. The look in Hannibal's eyes tells him he may as well have said it anyway.

Will sucks in a breath, and adds; "I'm willing to still be your Jury. But I don't want to meet any of the people I'm sorting. I don’t want to be around anyone – architects, Janets, _people_."

She blinks at him. "Eternity in solitude?" she asks. "Alone?"

"Not alone," Will replies with a shake of his head. "With Hannibal. Judge," he nods to her. "Jury," he gestures to himself, "and Executioner."

Hannibal huffs a laugh.

The Judge sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose, but she must know that Will is speaking the truth – if she tries to separate them again, Will and Hannibal will tear every layer of the afterlife to shreds to find each other, damn the consequences. She could put them both in the deepest pits on either side of the world and they would find a way to make a tunnel between them.

The Judge straightens again, and fixes him with a steely look. "I have a counter offer," she says. Will blinks at her, frowning as two files appear in her hands. She sets them down, one hand over each. "This one," she says, patting the one next to Will, "is an executive order to send you both back to the moment of your death. You'll survive, and continue on Earth, until you die naturally. You take this deal and you promise that whatever the points totals are at the end of the re-evaluation, when you die, you will go to whatever place Hannibal gets sorted into."

Will frowns.

"And the other file?" Hannibal asks.

She nods, and taps the other. "A house in the middle of a forest in the Medium Place. You both agree to go there. You won't be bothered by anyone else, but Will agrees to continue being Jury for me. _But_ ," she adds, and looks meaningfully at Will, "it'll be forever. Not just until the experiment is over, but any grey-area people, even after evaluation, you'll have to look through and sort."

Will sucks in a breath.

"You have an hour to decide," she says, and disappears from sight.

Will meets Hannibal's eyes. Their gazes drop to the two folders. "A few decades together, on Earth, and then whatever consequences come with it," Will murmurs.

"We will likely have our memories wiped of this time," Hannibal replies. "If we picked that option."

Will nods. He's not fool enough to think the Judge would send them back to Earth with all that they know, now. It would be like releasing a poker player into a competition with a stacked deck. He presses his lips together, folds his hands.

Hannibal sighs through his nose.

"What are you thinking?" Will asks.

"I am thinking…that for a lot of our time knowing each other, it was my design, and my decisions, that shaped your behavior. You changed me, yes, but my influence on you has been drastic." He takes in another breath. "I know what option I would prefer, but I want the choice to be yours."

Will smiles. "I'm still the Jury, for now," he says. "Make your case."

Hannibal's eyes flash, and his smile is warm. He folds his hands, mimicking Will, and sits forward. Meets his eyes with an earnest gaze. "If we were to go back, yes, all our memories of this place would be gone. If we get them back upon our natural death, we do not know, but Will, I…" He sighs, and shakes his head. "I know you, darling, so intimately I feel like you exist with me in my skin. I could never make the decision to forget again. I don't want to."

Will understands that, deeply.

"But being the Jury for the rest of time…. An eternity is a long time, Will. I wouldn't want you to ever come to resent that burden – to resent me, by proxy, for being the reason you chose it."

Will nods, licking his lips. His eyes drop to the files. "We could be happy together," he says quietly. "On Earth. You could take me to see Italy, or Cuba, or whatever sunny place you pleased. We could…grow old together."

"And, in time, understand each other as deeply as we do now," Hannibal says with a nod. "Yes."

It seems so fairytale.

Will swallows. "But we'd be hunted," he murmurs. "And even if we weren't, there's no guarantee that our lives would be easy. Untroubled by the whims of others." He meets Hannibal's eyes again. "If we choose isolation, you can't hunt."

At that, Hannibal smiles. "You are the Jury, Will," he purrs. "You could conjure whatever prey we desired." He reaches across the table and Will meets him, letting their fingers brush. "You could teach me how to fish."

Will laughs, his throat tight. "It sounds like we have already made a decision, Doctor Lecter," he says weakly.

"The choice is yours, Will," Hannibal replies. "I have had my dominion in our lives. It's your turn, now."

Will looks back down at the files. To be alive again, and then go wherever Hannibal ends up – they would be together, yes. They would be together, and alive, and Will would never have to bear the weight of another person in his head unless he wanted it there. He could forget Hannibal, relearn him, feast and travel with him for the rest of their natural lives.

But.

He closes his eyes. "I want to ask you the same question," he says.

Hannibal's head tilts, and Will meets his gaze levelly.

"Could you be happy with me, forever?"

Hannibal smiles, and looks at Will like he's a fool for asking. "Will, let me say this once, and let me say it with perfect clarity – with you by my side, I will want for nothing else." He uncurls his fingers, takes Will's hand, and squeezes gently. "Whether that's this eternity, or a different one. There exists so many timelines where we do not end up in the same place, but in this one, we are together, and I am the luckiest man for it."

"Who knew it would only take dying for that teacup to come together again," Will murmurs, smiling.

Hannibal laughs. Will nods to himself, looks at the files, and takes the one nearest Hannibal – the one that promises a house in the woods and complete isolation for everyone but themselves, as long as Will remains Jury for the rest of time.

He sets it in front of him, places both hands on it, and sighs.

Hannibal stands, and takes his seat at the head of the table again. He offers Will his wine glass, and they toast, and Hannibal pushes the other file away.

"Here's to playing God," Will murmurs.

Hannibal's expression is one of deep, vibrant joy. He says, with a smile so wide it shows all of his teeth, "I can think of no person more suited for the task."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do have some follow-up snippets planned, but for now we've reached the end! Thank you guys for indulging me in this AU, I hope y'all liked it :D <3


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